


Give Up The Ghost

by statikos



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3243254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statikos/pseuds/statikos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris goes to meet his sister alone, and is recaptured by his former master. With no time to lose, Hawke and his friends give chase to Tevinter to rescue him; but what they find may challenge them in more ways than one.</p><p>[ Currently on hiatus, because I bit off more than I could chew and I'd also like to rework some of the early bits which I'm not happy with. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Alone

**Author's Note:**

> My first "big" project in a while and the first in this fandom, making me a bit nervous, but I'm just going to go ahead and post it before my feet get cold.  
> Evidently a lot of people write "what ifs" based on things like Alone, but I hope that there will be something fun (maybe not the right word?) about this anyway. Whatever! Let's do this crazy thing.

In the letter she had called him “brother”.

He’d looked at that word for a long time, not least because he wanted to make sure he had read it properly. Then he’d touched the paper where it was written and it was almost as if warmth flowed from the parchment straight into his skin, flowing up his veins into his heart.

He is someone’s _brother_. What that means, Fenris doesn’t know yet, only that he suddenly feels very strange stepping into The Hanged Man in spite of having done it a thousand times before.

Perhaps it’s because this time, he is alone and all too aware of what that might mean for him. Aveline has confirmed what little she can, and if all else fails Isabela and Varric _do_ live here. As for Hawke…

If he had only asked, Hawke would have helped him—there’s no doubt in his mind. He could have done it easily; he’d seen him the very same night he’d met with Aveline, and faltered. Why? Because Hawke had lost his own family just years before, and he’d feared opening old wounds? Or because he hadn’t wanted Hawke with him at a time when he knew he would be vulnerable?

It doesn’t make sense. Hawke has, after all, proven himself exactly the sort of person it is best to be around when he's vulnerable, even as a mage. Yet Fenris hadn’t wanted to ask him. Perhaps it had been simply pride; a need to do this himself, instead of leaning on Hawke as he’s found himself unwittingly doing all too often these past years.

Fenris knows that it’s too late to have regrets about any of that, or to wish for him at his side. He is here now, and Varania must be here as promised. He has only to look for her.

A serving girl he doesn’t recognise bumps into him and he tenses immediately into a more defensible posture… but she recoils quickly, and hurries up the stairs. A group of laughing men gathered near the fireplace stare at him briefly as he tries to peer past them, but turn away again presently. Finally, he spies a flash of red hair past another serving girl. Time seems to slow as he walks closer, seeing that his eyes were not mistaken; he does know her.

“It really is you,” she says softly, and looks down at the table.

“Varania?” Suddenly images flash behind his eyelids every time he blinks—a dirty dress, a tiny hand clenched in his, a gap-toothed smile that he saw so rarely. “I… I remember you.”

A washing line with white sheets that she would hide behind. A fountain she would splash in when the masters weren’t looking, with him there to fetch her out and claim she’d fallen in by accident. A skinned knee on the cobblestones that he’d washed clean with damp cloth.

“We played in our master’s courtyard while Mother worked. You called me…”

“Leto,” she says, like a sigh. She still doesn’t look at him. “That’s your name.”

More images, and faster; blurring with the walls like the time Hawke had—never mind. In spite of himself he feels hope— _joy_ , even—starting to glow through him, until he looks more closely at her face. She… isn’t excited to see him, even if they’ve been apart all this time. She isn’t even smiling.

“What’s wrong?” He leans a little closer, tilting his head to look at her better. “Why are you so…?”

It dawns, then, that the rest of the tavern has gone silent; no laughter, no conversation, not even the half-hearted hum of music. Varania’s averted gaze is at once the coldest thing he has ever seen, and he freezes to the spot. Footsteps sound on the stairwell and he knows, he knows without seeing, knows and curses himself for his foolishness, for his lack of caution.

The laughing men block the door with their bodies. The unfamiliar serving girl reappears at the head of the stairs. Behind her, a face Fenris might have hoped to see again; but not like this. Not alone.

In the last few moments he imagines Isabela leaping over the bar, Varric barrelling down the stairs, Hawke and the others bursting through the door—but none of them come. Danarius and his men overwhelm him as Varania hides her face in her hands, faster than he can say, "betrayal".


	2. Gather Up the Lost and Sold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and his companions attempt to get to the bottom of Fenris' disappearance and devise a rescue plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a conscious decision not to use ~default Hawke since it's my understanding that everyone has different interpretations of them anyway and so the Hawke in this story is mine. To people who know me this might come as a bit of a shock since I usually draw Vair Hawke playing with small animals or being simultaneously fascinated by/terrified of mundane things and this story is going to go to a pretty dark place pretty quickly... just hear me out, anyway. ;P
> 
> All you really need to know about this guy for now:  
> \- Mage  
> \- Diplomatic/Helpful  
> \- Spirit Healer--it's relevant! In fact Vair's moveset contains absolutely no offensive spells aside from the basic attack and a few debuffs. Keep this in mind; it will be Important.  
> \- Orphan and only child by time of Act 3--wow, good job taking your brother to the Deep Roads without Anders, you giant idiot
> 
> This is canon divergance, not a true AU, so if anything seems unclear, feel free to ask. I'll keep it to myself if I think it will spoil something but in the meantime... uhhhh. This is a learning experience for me as much as you I guess, so bear with me while I throw myself blindly into this project. \o/

At this hour, the Estate always seems much emptier than it used to.

Hawke used to take dinner with his mother every evening. It was the least he could do, after losing Carver; after promising him to take care of her. But he’d failed, as he had with his brother, and now he generally eats alone. Sometimes, Bodahn or Orana will come and sit with him, but it isn’t quite the same. It’s not that he doubts their sincerity, but he _does_ pay them to be there.

Most of all, they aren’t Mother. Mother might not have always gotten it right, but she had done her best to understand him. It feels strange not to simply see her, or hear her calling him down to look at something—stranger still to think that he’d actually held what was left of her in his arms as her life had ebbed away, and _still_ he can’t fathom it. It’s been just three years without her. It will be many, many more.

So it’s almost a relief when, an hour before dinner, he hears a loud knock on the front door. Any diversion is welcome. Or so he thinks.

Varric and Isabela are standing at the door when he opens it. He steps back to hold it open for them. “Come in, you two. It’s good to see you.”

They look at one another. Pause. Varric grimaces slightly. “Ugh. I knew you’d say that.”

“Hm,” adds Isabela, staring down at her feet. Hawke hesitates.

“Is… everything all right?” he asks, carefully.

Varric takes a deep breath. “It’s… something happened today, at the Hanged Man. I think maybe you should brace yourself.”

When he doesn’t go on, Isabela takes the wheel. “It’s like this: we get told by the staff that they’re doing renovations and to keep out of the way. They clear everyone out in the morning, and don’t let us back in until after dark.”

“The thing is,” Varric continues, “there’s not an actual _renovation_ in sight. We’ve been walking over the same blood-spattered floorboards all week—haven’t fixed that wobbly banister, either—and I haven’t seen a single tradesman go in or out during the day. Customers are all being turned away; someone’s paying the staff off.”

Hawke frowns. “Who would do that? In the Hanged Man, of all places.”

“Must be filthy rich,” Isabela says. Her gaze drifts away. “But…”

“What’s the matter?” Hawke looks between them. “Is there something else?”

Varric sighs heavily, running his hand up over his face. “You’re not going to like this, Hawke, I’m telling you now. We didn’t see any renovations, but… I found this at the foot of the stairs.”

He digs into his pocket and retrieves something, extending his hand. Hawke lets go of the door and holds out his own to take it and feels a strangely familiar texture against his palm. Coldness creeps up the back of his neck slowly, then washes through the rest of him in an instant. “This is…”

“Yeah.” Varric lowers his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Hawke looks down at his palm. In it lies a torn-off piece of leather, gently worked into the shape of a feather. It’s faintly sticky on one side, and when he peels it off his skin it leaves a red print on his palm. “Fenris…”

“He’s not in his mansion; we just checked. Now, don’t panic—”

Clenching his fist around the feather, Hawke throws the door open again and strides out into the street with the others on his heels. He doesn’t look behind him even once; in the split-second he was able to think rationally, he had told himself to go to Aveline. She would know what to do in this situation if anyone did. Even if she didn’t, the city guard might have seen something that might be helpful.

“I was going to tell him to go to the guard anyway,” he hears Varric muttering.

 “Oh, please.” Isabela snorts. “When do we ever go to the authorities to solve our problems?”

“There _was_ the time—bah, you’re right.”

“I am,” she says, proudly, though Hawke hears her cutting short a follow-up remark. If even she won’t make fun of the situation, it _must_ be bad.

The Viscount’s Keep looms ahead of them and they take the stairs. The door swings open before they reach it and Aveline collides roughly with Hawke right on the doorstep. It takes them both a second to recover. Then Hawke looks at her somehow knowing. Dreading.

“Hawke.” She lets go a breath she must have been holding for some time. “Where is Fenris? I was wrong. There were slavers aboard the ship his sister arrived on; we just apprehended some in the alienage.”

“His sister?”

“Yes, she came to Kirkwall to meet him. He didn’t tell you?” As far as Hawke remembers, Fenris hasn’t said a word about his sister in years; not since the day they’d tracked Hadriana into the Holding Caves near the Wounded Coast. He’d been so angry he’d left without them; so angry Hawke had thought, for a sickeningly slow few hours, that he might never see him again. Then he’d come to the mansion that night. And…

“Hawke?” He must have looked dazed, because Aveline raises her voice a little. “Did he tell you where he was going?”

Hawke swallows. “No. He didn’t say anything.”

“Shit.” Aveline takes a deep breath through her nose, steeling herself. “Let’s look for him, then, before he gets himself into trouble.”

“Captain?” A guard has ascended the stairs behind them, though Hawke hadn’t even heard him approach. Aveline turns to him immediately. “The ship, Captain— _The Parthalan_ —it’s leaving port.”

Hawke turns to Aveline. Dreading. Knowing. “Is that the…”

“Yes,” she says. Though her face doesn’t change, Hawke sees her hand tremble slightly as she dismisses the guard, returning his salute. She rounds on Varric and Isabela. “Tell me one of you saw him. Today.”

“I told you, Aveline,” says Varric, “we’ve been kept out of the tavern all day.”

Isabela twists her lip. “I can’t lie to you… this time.”

Hawke feels as if the bottom has just dropped out of his stomach. He closes his eyes, centers himself, and opens them again. “All right. Let’s look for him, then. Varric, is there anything you can do?”

The dwarf lifts his hand as if he wants to pat him on the back. Then he lowers it again, nodding. “I know a few people.”

“And Aveline?”

Aveline clenches her jaw. “He’s hard to miss. I’ll put word out to my men.”

“Thank you.” Breathing feels difficult all of a sudden. He closes his eyes again and listens to them leave. He knows he needs to do something, too. Search the mansion again? Look for some clue, some sign or… anything?

“So…” Isabela. She could be so quiet when she wanted that he’d almost forgotten she was still there, but she closes her hand around his wrist in a gentle, almost comforting grip. “Shall we go and look for your man, or not?”

“It isn’t like—” Hawke looks up at her. She’s got her eyebrows raised and her mouth set to one side. “Let’s get Merrill and Anders. We’ll look on the way.”

 

* * *

 

Night falls, and they return to the Estate to wait for Varric and Aveline. No word comes.

“Might he not have just gotten lost?” asks Merrill, nervously and for the third time.

Anders sighs and runs his hand up his face wordlessly. Isabela elbows him.

“It doesn’t look that way, Kitten. Let’s wait and see what the others have to say.” She groans. “And Hawke, stop _pacing_. You’re making _me_ nervous.”

Hawke stops in front of the fireplace, hesitates, then starts up again. If he stands still he just feels as if he’s doing nothing, but he knows that just waiting around here isn’t accomplishing anything either. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this anxious, but the first time he’s felt so helpless to do anything about it. Before, the problems he’d faced had been so tangible: look out for your siblings, be good to your mother, protect your friends when danger presents itself. So what is there to do when the danger _doesn’t_ present itself? What if it hides, faceless and silent, merely inches from his blindly grasping hands?

“Hawke.” He hadn’t even noticed Anders getting up. He’s been so slow today. “Try to relax. They’ll be back soon.”

“I know.” Hawke smiles. He hopes it looks normal. “The three of you can go home, if you’d prefer. I’m quite all right.”

“Bullshit,” mutters Isabela. Anders gives her a look. “Well, it _is_!”

He doesn’t look to be arguing with her; but before he can open his mouth to say anything else, Varric and Aveline march side by side into the entrance hall. Just by looking at them, Hawke knows not to get his hopes up.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Varric ventures, slowly. “The bad news—ah, well, I feel like you already know the bad news. But Aveline and I learned more, if you can call that good news.”

“Just… stop,” says Aveline. “Hawke, it isn’t much, but I did confirm that the Tevinters we arrested in the alienage were here with Fenris’ former master. Danarius is a well-known magister in Minrathous; he’ll be easy to find, if we’re to pursue him.”

“And I assumed you would _want_ to pursue him,” adds Varric, “so I’ve already sent messages to some of my contacts in Tevinter—light on the details, of course. I should hear back from them in a few days.”

 _A few days._ Fenris must be miles away by now. Hurt. Terrified. How can they possibly wait even a second longer? Hawke swallows. “Perhaps we don’t have that time to spare. Could we not follow right away?”

Varric shakes his head. “I know you’re upset, Hawke, but we need to be careful about this. Tevinter isn’t the sort of place you can just waltz on into. We need to find a way to get in and out _safely_ as well as quickly. And we’ll be travelling over land, which means they’ll certainly know about us coming before we get there. Especially you, my friend.”

“Just a thought,” Isabela interjects, “if we _also_ had a ship—”

“We are _not_ stealing a ship,” Aveline cuts in immediately. “Not even for this.”

“Borrow a ship, then,” she tries. Next to her, Anders throws up his hands.

“Why? Why must you do this _now_? Not everything _has_ to be about you.” He turns to Hawke. “Hawke, if we’re doing this, I want to go with you. Perhaps Fenris and I don’t see eye to eye, but I know more about Tevinter magic than any—”

He must have caught Aveline glaring at him, because he cuts himself off.

“Er—what I mean is, they’d respect fellow mages more in Tevinter, wouldn’t they? I know I’d be useful.”

“Not everything _has_ to be about you, Anders,” Isabela scoffs. “Hawke, _I’ve_ actually _been_ there. For this and that. If you’ll have me along, I’ll go.”

Hawke thinks about it. It doesn’t seem entirely safe to bring Merrill to a place like Tevinter, all things considered. If they’re to operate in their usual four-man-cell, Varric, Isabela and Anders _are_ his best bets. They’re missing a heavy hitter, of course, but Aveline surely couldn’t leave her post for such an indefinite period of time. He couldn’t ask her for that.

“I think that would be for the best as well. Varric, would you come with us?”

“’Course I would.”

“I want to go,” says Merrill, abruptly. “Please, Hawke? I don’t know much about Tevinter—and what I do know isn’t very nice—but it’s such an awful thing that’s happened, I _couldn’t_ simply do nothing or—”

“That’s not a good idea,” Aveline says sternly. “I know you mean well, Merrill, but Tevinter is a bad place for…” She looks at Hawke. He realises, in some strange way, she’s actually trying to help him. “…for people like you. You were already at a lot of risk today in the alienage; I’m sure Hawke doesn’t want to lose you as well.”

“Hey, now.” Varric laughs. “We’re not talking like Fenris is lost. Knowing him, we’ll probably get to Minrathous just to find out he jumped ship and swam back to Kirkwall without us. He’ll come to rescue _us_ next.”

“No,” says Hawke, before he even realises he’s speaking. “He would never go back. Not for anything.”

“I dunno,” says Varric, smiling a little softer, “the way he talked sometimes, I think he might do it for you.”

Hawke can’t decide if that’s a compliment, or the most terrifying thing he’s ever heard. He doesn’t want to be the reason people do things they don’t want to do; certainly not the reason they get themselves hurt or even killed. Enough has already gone wrong as an indirect result of his mere existence, so the more he can keep his friends out of it the better.

“In any case,” says Aveline, “Fenris is our friend, too. Leaving things as they are is not an option.”

“All of you have done plenty already.” Hawke’s throat feels tight, but he makes sure to look at everyone in turn. “I’m sure we can see this through soon enough. Shall we reconvene in the morning?”

Breathing comes harder and harder. Varric gives him one of those long looks that says he knows, and sets the tone by swivelling on his heel and beckoning everyone out. Some leave faster than others. In the end, it’s only Anders standing in the entryway. As Hawke watches him, he opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes it again.

“It’s all right.” Hawke smiles again. “You can go.”

 _Please go,_ he thinks, when his eyes start to water. Anders turns his face respectfully, and walks out slowly.

Hawke is alone.

He doesn’t cry. Strangely, his eyes turn dry again as soon as he hears the door close, and he finds himself in an ambivalent state where very little seems to matter. Even thinking of Fenris doesn’t hurt now; it’s as if his wounds have all gone numb. It’s not until he falls asleep that the pain comes back. Tenfold.

There’s Bethany first, crushed in his hand and shaken like a doll. Carver next—Carver always the most vivid of all—veins turning blue around his neck, shaking as he waits for him to plunge the dagger through his heart. His fingers stitching Mother’s head to another neck, tugging out the eyes and putting the right ones back in, everything right, everything perfect, everything just like Her. In these dreams he can never tell if he is the one hurting or the one helping, can never tell which are his own memories and which are the explanations he’s come up with to soothe himself. It’s no good either way. They all see him as they die.

Bethany’s eyes, turning red at the seams. Carver’s eyes, flickering away so as not to watch the blade go in. Mother’s eyes—not Mother’s eyes. Mother’s eyes had been blue like his, not burst in the middle with rotten, blown out pupils. They hadn’t called him Hawke. To them he had been Vair, or “brother” or “son”. Then their final breaths had been squeezed from their lips, and they called him nothing.

While awake, he tries to believe they all died for their own unique reasons. In his dreams he knows only the truth his heart tells him; that every death was the same. They died because he didn’t take care of them. He could have gotten between Bethany and that ogre. He could have told Carver to stay behind when he left for the Deep Roads. He could have told Mother sooner about the white lilies. And then Fenris—surely he could have done something more for Fenris. If Fenris had trusted him, maybe he would have spoken to him about his sister. Why else would he have told Aveline and not him?

 _Because he saw,_ he thinks, _he saw me every day. He saw me kill my brother. He saw my mother die in my arms. How could he come to me about his family?_

When Fenris appears in his dream that night, he hasn’t come to hold him or kiss him or say any of the things Hawke has longed him to say for three aching years. He comes with a sword—a sword, and no mercy.


	3. Gather Up the Pitiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he and his companions set off to rescue Fenris, Hawke discovers that the road to Tevinter is no less trying than the conflict within their own group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your feedback so far guys! I'm not sure what pace I'll be uploading this at, but hopefully it's all right.  
> I should try not to go on and on, so maybe I'll just shut up now. 8') If you're with me this far, then thank you very much! It's all downhill from here. \o/

Hawke wants to keep going when Varric insists that they stop for the night, but he knows this is down to his feelings, not his judgment. His stomach still sinks as he sets down his pack for the night and goes to help set up the tents.

The camp sits snugly in a bend of the Minanter River, still miles from the Tevinter border. They're nested on the Nevarran side of the Silent Plains, which Hawke knows is about a day’s march crossing; to reach Minrathous, they will have to go further North on the Imperial Highway for perhaps another day.

By that time, Fenris will have been captive for just under a week. In fact, judging by Isabela’s estimates, _The Parthalan_ should have landed in Tevinter today. Hawke already knows that he’s taken too long to crush down his fear; his friends keep giving him sidelong looks that say they’re worried. This only makes things worse. If they know how terrified he is, how can they trust him to lead the way? Perhaps it’s too late already. After all, it’s been Varric calling most of the shots since they set out, and he has done little more than agree.

It hasn’t been easy going. On the first leg of the journey they’d had to cross the mountains, slowing them down considerably, and once they’d passed into Nevarra they’d been further delayed by poor weather and the need for supplies. Privately, Hawke wonders if they _shouldn’t_ have just stolen a ship. If that were the case, they would already be _there_ by now; instead, their feet are blistered and their throats are dry, and Minrathous is still a world away.

He washes his face in the river, then finds himself simply staring into the dark water, kneeling in the stones. Presently, the slow current begins to dance with the orange light of the campfire behind him, broken by a long shadow as Varric comes down the bank to join him.

“Going swimming?” he asks.

Hawke smiles. “No, no. I was only thinking.”

“Even worse.” Varric laughs, but it trails off into a sigh. “Uh… you know you’ve been down here for a while, right? Everything okay?”

Sometimes, when he talks like this, Varric reminds him a little of his father. He was incapable of lying to his father, too. “No. But I’ll feel better once we get there.”

“Right. About that—”

Hawke startles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” Varric says, quickly. “I just thought you might want to come up to the fire so we can all get our story straight together. As… _brilliant_ as you are in the arts of deception and subtlety.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me,” he admits, sheepishly.

“Honestly, I didn’t think so. But don’t worry; Rivaini and I are both excellent liars. More than qualified to carry you and Blondie, if you ask me.” He winks. “Come on. You can swim in the morning.”

“I wasn’t swimming.”

“Of course you were swimming. In fact, while you were swimming, you caught a fish, and it was _this_ big!” Varric motions with his hands. “But it got away during the fight with the mermaids.”

When Hawke only stares, he clarifies:  “That was an example of a lie. I’m sure you’ve heard of them, in passing.”

Hawke looks away, back into the water. “Excuse me. I haven’t been feeling myself.”

“I noticed. We’re all worried, but… I know he’s special to you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. “Two more days—three at the most—and we’re there. Let’s be ready.”

“Let’s.” Rising to his feet, Hawke gazes over the river one last time. Then he and Varric make their way back up the bank towards the camp, feet slipping occasionally on the stones.

Anders is tending the fire when they arrive, hands gliding unharmed through the flames themselves and curling occasionally into grasping motions, guiding the fire to grow. It makes Hawke a little anxious; primal magic has never been his strength, so he’s fairly sure that if he put _his_ hands in the fire they’d simply burn. Isabela, on the other hand, seems to be trying to distract him by polishing her daggers suggestively, with little success.

Once all four of them are seated around the fire, Hawke feels all eyes on him once again. He turns to look at Varric quickly in order to redirect them. “Varric, you were saying…?”

“Ah, yes. Lying.”

“I like this conversation,” says Isabela, setting her daggers down.

Anders shakes his head. “You would.”

Varric continues. “If brute force was going to help us, we’d have brought Aveline. As it’s not… I figured _one_ of us was going to have to come up with a decent cover story. What you’ll need to remember is that the best lies stick as close to the truth as possible. Less contradiction that way. So let’s get started with our least favourite things about Kirkwall. Blondie?”

“Templars,” says Anders, immediately. “The corruption—”

“What a surprise. Rivaini?”

After some thought, Isabela twists her lip and replies, “The Qunari attack wasn’t my favourite.”

“Nor mine. And Hawke?”

“I…” He swallows. “I like Kirkwall.”

“Absolutely _everything_ about Kirkwall?” asks Varric, head tilting. “ _Really_?”

Anders leans closer to him, placing his hand on his arm. “Hawke, I know you’ve seen the terrible things they do to mages back there—even you can’t truly feel safe there, can you?”

“That’s part of the reason I’m glad to be there,” he says. “I can do something for those mages, if they can’t protect themselves.”

“Is that including the ones who occasionally try to murder us?” asks Isabela. “Just wondering.”

“That’s different,” concedes Hawke, “but—”

“Let’s put this into perspective, Rivaini,” Varric intervenes. “Everything _else_ in Kirkwall tries to kill us, too. Dragons, bandits, prostitutes… probably little old ladies, soon enough.”

“That’s not fair! There are _good people_ in Kirkwall; you know there are!” Hawke rises to his feet before he can think. “It isn’t their fault they’ve had to act the way they have. They’re trying their best.”

“Easy, easy.” Varric puts his hands up in a show of surrender. “We know you care about Kirkwall. But it’s not like nobody in Tevinter knows who you are. You’re going to have to convince them you’ve left for a reason, or there’s no way you’re going to get close enough to the magisters to get Fenris back.”

Hawke knows his hands are shaking, but he can’t stop them. He sits down again and clasps them together. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And _I_ know that you’re _not_ happy with everything in Kirkwall. How could you be, when you care so much?” Varric sighs. “Look, I’d focus on the mage thing while you’re in Tevinter; that’s a language they’ll all speak. Take some cues from Blondie and talk about how bad they treat you, if you have to.”

“Don’t forget about the Qunari thing!” Isabela grins. “They’ll love that you killed the Arishok. I mean, it was someone in Tevinter who wanted the Tome of… er, the book thingy stolen. Just maybe don’t tell them you gave it back.”

“Anyway,” says Varric, “let’s keep it basic; Hawke and Blondie are sick of how Kirkwall treats mages, Isabela is…”

“Here for the drinks,” she finishes. “I’ll just say I’m looking for work. Might actually find some, too.”

“And I’m not worried about myself.” Varric shrugs. “Plenty of dwarves in Tevinter, casteless or not. I’ve got cousins there as well as business contacts.”

Hawke frowns. “But dwarves can’t use magic, can they?”

“No; but they can mine and trade lyrium like no-one’s business. Also, snobs of a feather flock together. I mean, tracking bloodlines to maintain a corrupt class system? Clinging to tradition like a kid with a comfort blanket? We’ve got a lot more in common than you’d think.”

“That’s right; there are embassies all over the Imperium, aren’t there?” Anders adds, almost excitedly. “I’ve read about them. There’s also the Ambassadoria, which is—”

Isabela interrupts him with the loudest, longest yawn she can possibly muster. Then she rubs her eyes and blinks up at them all dreamily. “Oh, excuse me. That was only the least interesting thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Can we talk about lying some more?”

“I think we’ve covered as much as we can, tonight, unfortunately,” says Varric, stifling a laugh. “Especially if you’re sleepy.”

“Come to bed, Varric,” she says, batting her eyelids melodramatically.

“Well,” he says, “I was going to talk about how Minrathous is an impenetrable fortress that hasn’t been captured once in all known history. But how important could that be?”

“Actually, Varric, I would rather you _did_ talk about that,” says Hawke, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. But Varric makes sure to smile at him quickly.

“We’re going as ‘refugees’, remember? Not an army. Trust me, Hawke; my contacts will get us in. That’s the easy part. What we’ve really got to prepare for is the next bit.” He turns away, then, though slowly. “But we’ve a few more days to get our story straight. Right now, it’s late.”

“You’re right.” Hawke stands again. “Let’s all get some rest. We’ll be crossing the border tomorrow and should be at our best.”

Isabela and Varric take to their tent with little prompting, but Anders is left sitting cross-legged by the fire. In spite of his earlier efforts, it seems to be fading sheepishly into embers.

“Do put that out when you come in? It could be dangerous otherwise.”

“Wait, Hawke.” Anders looks up at him, eyes imploring. In spite of himself, Hawke feels his stomach clenching uneasily. “I need to speak with you. Only for a moment.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hawke sits back down beside him. “Of course. What’s troubling you?”

Anders’ eyes flicker away, and he turns his attention back to the fire, starting to coax it back to life with slow, graceful motions of his fingers. Hawke is sometimes envious of the way that the more destructive schools of magic can turn gentle in Anders’ hands; he himself was never good with fire, even in very small doses.

“How are you, Hawke?”

 _Tired. Frightened._ “Fine. Thank you.”

Anders’ hands pause for a moment. “How are you _really_?”

He looks down at his own lap. “I’m… worried.”

“About Fenris?”

“Yes.” His voice catches for a moment. “About all of you. I don’t want to lose you three, too.”

“You’re a good man, Hawke,” says Anders. His hands start moving again, and they both watch as the fire crackles softly back to life. “I always wondered, you know, why you were so fond of him. When I first heard how you felt about Fenris, I was worried for you.”

Hawke watches his face now, instead of his hands. “For me? Why?”

“Because he _hates_ mages! I thought, perhaps… he’d make you ashamed of what you are, when you shouldn’t be. You deserved… I don’t know. Better, I suppose.” Is that bitterness in his voice? “I was glad when he left you.”

“That… isn’t your place, Anders,” Hawke tells him, though not unkindly.

“I know that. I’m sorry.” Cowed, Anders averts his eyes again. “It’s just that I was surprised by how he acted afterwards; when he said leaving you was the hardest thing he’d ever done. I suppose I’d never considered that _you’d_ change _him_.”

“I—I didn’t.” Hawke feels his face flushing, and it’s a foreign sensation after this long. “Besides, it isn’t like that now.”

 _Nor may it ever be,_ he thinks. It had been one thing to worry about Fenris being unable to return his feelings, and another to worry about the possibility of never seeing him again.

“Of course. I apologise for bringing it up.” The flames flicker briefly where Anders’ fingers touch them. “No matter what I think, you should be happy. I hope we find him again.”

Hawke’s chest tightens, once. “Thank you, Anders. You’re a good friend.”

“And you, Hawke. You mean a great deal to me.” Anders smiles, but the edges are tight with sorrow and it soon fades. “There is one other thing, and I must ask you not to tell the others.”

“What is it?” There is a sense of something dark and ominous hanging over them now, even more than there was before. Anders’ hands fall to his sides and the fire quickly languishes into smoke and embers once again.

“I don’t know if I will be able to return with you to Kirkwall.”

Hawke smiles. “Of course you will, Anders. I wouldn’t let anything happen to—”

It hits him then. Hard and blunt, enough to leave him reeling. Anders reaches into his pocket, and in the moonlight, supported by the embers’ dim glow, Hawke can make out the outline of a round object in his hand.

“Is that—”

“Yes. A Tevinter Chantry amulet. Do you remember?” Anders holds it out so Hawke can view it more closely. “Ever since you gave it to me, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it; how it must be to live in a place where mages could express themselves without fear. I could learn so much—do so much—”

“Anders,” Hawke says, gravely, “think about why we’re here.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t be like that,” says Anders, quickly. “Justice would never allow it, for one, and I… Hawke. Kirkwall is exhausting me. I barely sleep, fearing I may never wake. I can scarcely stop myself from doing foolish things—dangerous things—in the name of my cause. It will kill me, Hawke, don’t you see? The part of me that’s _me_ … it doesn’t want to die. Or hurt anyone else.”

Hawke shakes his head. “This isn’t the answer, Anders. Tevinter is dangerous.”

“You only know what Fenris has told you! I’ve read all about its _culture_ , its scholarly achievements… I _know_ it can be more than just a Chantry horror story.”

“Fenris has lived there, unlike any of us,” says Hawke, “and books can lie.”

“I—no. Never mind. I should never have said anything.” Anders gets to his feet, stuffing the amulet back into his pocket. “I ought to have known not even you would understand.”

“I _do_ understand.” Hawke stands with him, reaching to grab him by the arm as he turns to leave. He stifles his _how could you_ s and _why_ s for now. “But you need to think about this a little harder. Maybe Tevinter is all that you say _and_ all that Fenris says. Will that truly be any better for you or Justice? I’m simply asking you to be careful.”

“I will not know until I see it for myself,” says Anders firmly, tugging his arm from his grip, “but I would never say this unless I’d given it plenty of thought. In the meantime, I remind you that you are not my _mother_ , Hawke.”

“I’m not.” Hawke sighs, letting his hands hang limp at his sides. “But I… I worry. How can I help it?”

Anders laughs sourly. “I can at least understand that much. Maybe it’s part of being a healer? We can’t help wanting to help.”

Hawke meets his eyes as best he can in the dim moonlight. “Anders, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He comes closer again and lays his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, please. I haven’t decided anything for sure yet, and I’ll see things through with you first. I’ll… be careful, all right?”

“All right.”

He sighs. “It was bad timing, I’m sorry. Shall we try to get some sleep?”

After a conversation like that, Hawke doubts he will be able to sleep at all, but strangely he finds himself going under almost the moment he lies down. He dreams in vague shapes and Fenris’ voice, and when he wakes up he can’t remember what it was about at all. Later, when they’re back on the road, he looks at the broken feather he’s kept in his pouch as if hoping it will remind him, but it never does.

The road through Tevinter is surprisingly straightforward once they get past the Silent Plains, and Hawke finds himself growing more and more accustomed to the freedoms now afforded to him and Anders; they can cast spells to hasten their party with increasing openness, and lyrium in particular becomes much simpler to resupply themselves with. In fact, people seem to pay them very little notice at all.

In light of this, Varric makes sure to announce them literally everywhere they go. This terrifies Hawke at first, until he discovers that many Tevinters, including non-mages, are already quite aware of him. Some even push right past Varric to speak to him, especially when it comes to the Arishok. He loses count of the times he explains that, actually, the rest of the Qunari had simply surrendered (rather than he and his band of followers having decimated them immediately); or that, no, he did not keep the horns as a trophy.

Most of all what he’s struck by is how very normal most people are. The only difference immediately is that magic is truly everywhere; people use it as freely as breathing, for tasks as simple as lighting a lamp or icing a drink. More than once he looks over at Anders and sees him near breathless with wonder, and while Varric and Isabela simply laugh and tease him, Hawke feels his heart sink further still in his chest.

They reach Minrathous earlier than expected, although at first Hawke thinks they’ve missed it. Then the morning mist fades and he sees the giant drawbridge looming down in front of them and he realises that, no, they certainly didn’t miss it. They join a queue behind merchants and other travellers, feeling a lot more like cattle than brave adventurers on an epic rescue mission. The guards don’t even seem particularly interested when Varric announces them as “the Champion of Kirkwall, Vair Hawke, and his associates Varric of House Tethras, author and member of the Dwarven merchants guild, Anders formerly of the Grey Wardens and Isabela (sorry, _Captain_ Isabela)”—in fact, at that point, they promptly hurry him along to their business, to which he actually replies “sightseeing” with absolutely no trouble.

They’re almost at the end of the drawbridge when Hawke hears something that ought to defy all reason, being shouted hoarsely and repeatedly from somewhere just ahead: his name.

Hope surges through him like lightning and fizzles out just as quickly when he sees that the owner of the voice is an elven man with dark hair and unmarked skin, tiredly waving a piece of parchment. “Hawke! Serah Hawke!”

Varric looks up at him. “Could be someone from my network. Go on, say hello.”

Hawke approaches, though cautiously. The man looks up at him, stunned. “Serah Hawke? Are you Serah Hawke?”

“I am, ser,” he says. “How can I help you?”

“I’m not a _ser_ ,” laughs the man, before straightening up quickly. “Er, excuse my manners. I’m Cyron, serving House Virgam, and I was told to wait here for you, ser. I have a message from my master, er, if you please.”

He holds out the parchment in his hand, and Hawke takes it with a smile. “I hope you haven’t waited terribly long.”

“No, ser, only two days. My master sent me the same evening he returned.”

Varric clicks the exact same second that Hawke opens the letter. “Oh, _shit_.”

Cyron bows to them and gestures at the road ahead. “I’m meant to show you to an inn, if you don’t mind.”

Hawke doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the words in front of him.

_Hawke,_

_I have heard a great deal about you of late and was most excited to learn you were on your way to Minrathous. It is kind of you indeed to visit the Imperium at this time of year! We are at our most radiant in the summer, but I imagine you Southerners would have trouble with the heat._

_If it is not too much trouble, I would very much like to make your acquaintance during your visit. It so happens I am holding a small party soon and if you arrive in time I would be more than happy to invite you, along with one close friend if you choose. Let the messenger know if you would like to attend and he will give you my address and the date and time; otherwise, I should be more than happy to arrange a more private engagement._

_I hope the journey was no trouble. I’m looking forward to meeting you._

_Danarius_


	4. What Seems Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambushed by Danarius' letter at the gates of Minrathous delivered by an unusual elven slave, Hawke finds himself with no choice but to attend a party at the magister's estate along with Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! I've just started studying again and I was injured recently so most of my free time has been spent doped up on painkillers. I did, admittedly, write some pretty hilarious stuff during that time but none of it was really acceptable for this story hahaha.
> 
> This is a rather OC-heavy chapter for which I feel a little bit bad. It's always tricky with OCs in fanfiction! In a fandom like Dragon Age I think they're mandatory for obvious reasons, but I get nervous about them all the same. With canon characters you can generally assume that the audience already cares about and is interested in them, whereas with OCs you kind of just have to see how it goes and hope nobody tears them to shreds. P: That's difficult for a wuss like me, but I did structure the story this way for a reason so I hope you can all trust me a bit. \o/
> 
> Some of you might be wondering when Fenris will show up in the story again/if he is okay/etc. To that I would say, "maybe!" And then I might laugh unsettlingly.

Cyron hails them a carriage that carries them bumpily into the heart of the city, nobly declaring that he’ll stand to leave more room for them to sit. When the road becomes particularly rough and he’s jolted so badly he almost falls on his knees, he sheepishly accepts a seat between Hawke and Isabela.

“So,” Hawke tries, as calmly as he can, “Danarius is your master?”

“Yes,” says Cyron, looking uninterested. “Long as I remember.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Master’s good.” Cyron scratches his ear, and Hawke notices that the tip is missing. “S’long as you’re one of his favourites. I was, for a bit.”

Hawke tries a smile. “For a bit?”

“Mmhm.” Cyron’s eyes drift away, and he bends over the edge of the seat and turns his feet over in his hands, scowling at them. “Stupid cobblestones. Always give me blisters—uh, sorry, ser.”

“That’s all right. Were you going to say something, Cyron?” Hawke leans over to try and meet his eyes again. “About your master’s favourites?”

“Er… was I, ser?” He sits up straight again, puffing out his chest a little. “He spoils us, really. Some of the other magisters think it’s silly, but he doesn’t care. Nobody tells him what to do.”

“It sounds as if you’re very fond of him, but…”—a combination of the conversation and the motion of the carriage is making Hawke feel a little sick—“I’m afraid I don’t know much about your Master at all.”

“You don’t? Master said to treat you like one of his special guests.” Cyron frowns, and Varric gives Hawke a warning look. “You _are_ Serah Hawke, aren’t you?”

“O-oh, yes, I am. It’s just that I’m, er, not from Tevinter.”

“Then where are you from?”

“Ferel—the Free Marches. I was born in Lothering, but I live in Kirkwall now.”

Cyron scrunches up his nose. “Dunno what a _Kirkwall_ is, but all right. How do you know Master, then?”

“Hawke _is_ famous, just in case you didn’t know,” puts in Varric, much to Hawke’s relief. “I’m surprised more magisters didn’t leave their messengers at the gates to meet him. Sounds like your Master’s ahead of the curve.”

“Well, _yes_ ,” says Cyron, tipping his chin up proudly. “But Master is particular and he wants you to come to the party. He doesn’t invite just _anyone_ to the parties.”

“Hawke’s not just anyone,” says Varric. “Your Master must know that.”

Scratching his nicked ear again, Cyron considers it. He looks up at Hawke and for a moment it seems as if he might say something. Then the carriage shudders to a halt and he hastens to stand and open the door, bowing to each of them like a puppet as they exit the carriage.

“Well, that’s… creepy,” notes Isabela under her breath, though Cyron takes no notice.

“Serah Hawke, the party?” he instantly asks.

Hawke freezes for a moment. Then, “I see. When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

He looks at the others. Isabela’s eyes are wide, but she turns her hands palm-up, as if to say, “what can you do?”. Anders glances away quickly, and Hawke cannot read him. Varric meets his eyes for a moment, then simply nods.

“I’d be happy to,” says Hawke, turning back to Cyron. Perhaps that isn’t convincing enough, so he pushes another smile. “What perfect timing.”

Cyron pulls another slip of parchment out of his tunic. This one is smaller, bearing only a few words; an address, this time. “House Virgam is easy to find from here. You can walk if you don’t want to take a carriage.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” When Cyron leaves and he’s alone with the others again, his thoughts catch up with him and he suddenly feels as if he’s going to be sick. He’d said he would be ‘happy’. ‘Happy’ to meet the person Fenris hated and feared more than anyone; the person who had taken his freedom from him a second time. Even knowing it to be a lie doesn’t help. He’s negotiated with people he didn’t agree with before, certainly, but rarely is it so personal and with so much at stake.

It takes every ounce of effort in him to remain cordial as they enter the inn and pay for their room.

“Well,” says Isabela, once they close the door behind them, “this is pretty much the most obvious trap I’ve ever seen.”

“No shit.” Varric even looks a little queasy. “It’d be creepy enough if we weren’t in Tevinter, but we are, so… that’s just great.”

“I couldn’t refuse,” Hawke says, “we can’t wait any longer to go after Fenris.”

“There was something unusual about that servant,” says Anders, thoughtfully.

“Slave,” Hawke corrects him, more venomously than he had really meant to.

Anders winces, then continues. “Perhaps it was nothing. It was only… a feeling. I used to sense it sometimes around Fenris, too. Justice is uneasy.”

Varric shrugs. “Couldn’t have anything to do with slavery being unjust or anything?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not like that. I thought you would have felt it, too, Hawke? When Fenris uses his abilities, there’s… it’s like a draining feeling, almost.”

“I never felt that,” says Hawke. “For me, it was almost as if… when he fought close by, he made me feel strong. Like everything was flowing—like I could cast farther.”

“Are you sure that’s a magic thing?” Isabela flops sideways into one of the armchairs, legs draped over one of the arms. “And not just an, ‘ooh, Fenris, I need you, ooh, take me now’ thing?”

“It’s not!” Hawke protests. “We’re not—b-besides, I didn’t feel anything like that from Cyron.”

“Maybe you aren’t as sensitive to it,” suggests Anders. “It was definitely the same feeling. The same type of magic, perhaps.”

“Could be something Danarius does to all his slaves, maybe?” Varric scratches his chin. “Like a—I dunno, a magical brand or some creepy magister shit like that.”

“You could be right. I heard some magisters developed obedience spells that were unique to each caster,” Anders adds. “But they’re illegal now—not just because it’s blood magic. It can permanently damage—”

“ _Stop_.” Hawke means to shout, but it comes out very quietly, like in a nightmare. Still, the others fall quiet and give him their attention. “That’s _enough_ , Anders. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Hawke. You know I would never—”

“It’s not that.” Hawke cuts him off. “Just… I don’t know how you learned about that kind of magic, and it doesn’t matter right now. I only want to find Fenris and go home. Do you think you could sense him? If he were close by?”

Anders frowns. “I’m… not sure. He has a much stronger aura than Cyron. I think so.”

“Then maybe you should come with me tomorrow night.” Hawke finds himself thinking, rather furiously, _You’ll probably enjoy it._ His anger is quickly replaced by guilt, then fear. What if Anders _does_ enjoy it? What if he decides to stay after all of this? In Tevinter, Anders could be free from the templars—free from Kirkwall’s oppressive air—but he could also be seduced into the same twisted culture that had driven the lyrium under Fenris’ skin. If not, it could simply eat him alive. “It’s up to you.”

“That might be a good idea,” says Varric. “Very pro-mage of you. While you’re at it, I have a few contacts who might be able to give us more information on Danarius. I’ll see if any of them will be at the party.”

“On the night, it might be a good idea for whoever isn’t going to circle the property. Look for entrances or exits, just in case we have to… do something drastic.” Hawke lowers his gaze. “I hope not.”

“Do you? Do you _really_ not want to kill magisters even a little bit?” asks Isabela.

He shakes his head. “Not if it will make it more dangerous.”

“It’s pretty dangerous already,” Varric injects. “Not to, ah, bring the mood down or anything.”

“I know that. Let’s just try to be careful.” It sounds stupid rolling off his tongue, but too late now. “Does everyone know what to do tomorrow? Anders will come with me. Isabela and Varric, you’ll cover us from outside. Excuse me—”

The room feels far too stifling, and he finds his eyes drifting often toward the double-doors leading to the balcony.

“—I’d like some air.”

Unbidden, Isabela joins him outside not long after. She isn’t interrupting anything but his long stare into the city below, where, now that night has fallen and fewer citizens stroll the streets, slaves gather with brooms and baskets to sweep up the remains of the day. He doesn’t know why he thinks he could see Fenris this way; simply, coincidentally. Danarius will be nothing but a passing inconvenience, a bad dream, something that briefly stood between them and happiness.

“You look like you’re thinking something deep,” says Isabela, leaning on the railing beside him. “Shall I guess?”

“If you want to,” he replies, giving her a tentative smile.

She pretends to think for a while. “Chocolate cake. With cream on top and jam in the middle.”

He shakes his head, but smiles a little wider. “No.”

“That’s just me, then.” She laughs. “All right. Dogs.”

“No.”

“You’re not as Fereldan as I thought. How about snow, then?”

Finally, Hawke laughs very quietly. “It’s hot here. We could use it.”

“I never understood why Fenris complained about the cold so much,” Isabela muses. “I didn’t realise he grew up in a giant sweat lodge.”

“Hawke. He’ll be _fine_.” She lays her hand on his back. “You know him. He can survive anything.”

“Just because he can doesn’t mean he should have to,” he says, swallowing. She stares at him until he admits his afterthought. “I should have done something.”

She backs off. “Why are you being so _silly_ about this? You didn’t know and that’s that. If he didn’t want to tell, nobody could have gotten it out of him anyway.”

“He told Aveline.”

“He had her help with one thing. It’s not _her_ fault, is it?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“So it’s not _your_ fault. You’re being ridiculous.” She leans back against the railing, letting her head hang back. Her hair clumps together in the humidity. “Both of you are. He thinks he ruins everything and you think you have to fix everything. Tell you what; if there are gods or creators or a Maker, they were having a laugh when they put you two in the same city.”

“Fenris didn’t ruin anything,” Hawke murmurs. “This wasn’t his fault.”

“No, it’s Danarius’ fault.” Isabela throws up her hands. “Why don’t we just, I don’t know, blame the person who actually did it? And then shank him or something. Please tell me you’re going to shank him, by the way.”

Hawke can’t even think about putting a knife in a living person these days without feeling faint, but he thinks for Danarius he could try. “If he survives, he’ll only come after Fenris again.”

 _If_ they save him in the first place.

“Can’t have that,” says Isabela, simply. She stretches, exaggerating a yawn. “Anyway, it’s late. Good night, Hawke.”

He gets the point. “I was just going to bed myself.”

“Well, good. You’ll be up late tomorrow, right? Partying.” She holds the door open for him and motions back indoors. “Seriously, Hawke. Go to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

He does sleep, though he still doesn’t feel rested enough the next day. It’s not until the evening that he starts to feel remotely more awake again, largely because Anders wonders if they shouldn’t coordinate their outfits. Varric thinks that might be a little bit twee. Isabela suggests simply removing the midriffs of their robes, for _some_ degree of uniformity.

In the end they just wear the same things they arrived in. There’s another brief debate about whether or not they should bring their staves, which Varric cuts short by pointing out that they have no idea how many hostile blood mages they’ll be rubbing shoulders with tonight and do they _really_ want to go in unarmed? They all decide that isn’t the best idea, though Anders is quick to note that both of them are primarily healers, anyway; if anything _does_ happen, they’re screwed.

(“Hawke _did_ kill the Arishok,” Isabela points out.

“Yes,” says Varric, “but mostly by running in circles.”)

House Virgam is easy to find. The black, iron fence is overlaid with, long spiralling reliefs of dragons, weaving in and out of the bars, and either side of the front gate are two thick pillars with a large, marble owl peering down from each. The eyes glow blue with lyrium.

Hawke falters. Anders catches him by the arm and nudges him forward.

“It will be all right,” he whispers, and Hawke feels guilty once more for any bad thought he might have had of him. “Go on.”

Cyron is waiting at the gate, his long hair pinned back on one side to show off his nicked ear. He wears the same clothes he greeted them in at the gate the day before and—Hawke notices, with a little discomfort—seems to be an object of amusement for the other guests as they pass him, sometimes even tweaking the blunt tip of his ear or patting him freely on the small of the back.

“Doesn’t Danarius normally keep you in the kennels these days?” jeers one as they pass him, clad in white from head-to-toe with another elf following them in matching, yet more modest attire. Hawke sees the two slaves exchange a brief, strained smile.

“Are you all right?” he asks, as he and Anders approach. He can’t help but ask: “He doesn’t really—”

“Serah Hawke! And… guest.” Seeming to ignore his question, Cyron bows deeply. When he stands up again, he shakes his head. “Master says you aren’t to worry. I’m your _anchor_. So you won’t get lost on the grounds, or go somewhere you’re—to make things more familiar, that’s all.”

“Right,” says Anders, giving Hawke a wary, sidelong look. “Is that why people are giggling at us right now?”

Cyron takes no notice of him. “Master said I’m to make you comfortable _any_ way I can. Do you like wine? Master has some of his best vintages out tonight.”

“Thank you,” says Hawke, “we’ll be all right for now. Could you show us around, please, Cyron?”

“Oh. I…” The slave averts his eyes, itching behind his nicked ear again. “You’ve got nice manners, serah. D’you want to see Master’s art collection?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Never too late to appreciate the arts?” Anders sighs as they follow Cyron through the front doors, ducking immediately down a side hallway. “I don’t like this, Hawke. It feels like Danarius set us up with him on purpose, and _not_ as a compliment.”

“That’s not Cyron’s fault. He’s only doing as he’s told.” Hawke knows that lowering their voices might not be nearly enough. After all, Fenris had always been able to make it out if he’d said something about him on the other side of a room, though that had usually been embarrassing rather than potentially life-threatening. “Besides, we really don’t know where we’re going.”

“In here!” Cyron opens a door for them a little further down the hall. He lowers his voice as they come closer. “You’re quite lucky. Master doesn’t usually let people he doesn’t know well in here.”

Hawke isn’t sure what to expect as they enter. Certainly not something so… typical of an art collection. On the first wall he looks at are landscapes of the routes they’d travelled no more than a day ago, melting into stunning renderings of what must be the finest Tevinter architecture. In the corner is a tiny, wooden model of some sort of cathedral, resting on a stone pillar, scorched black.

“Oh, was this damaged?” asks Hawke, trying his best to seem interested.

“No,” says Cyron, as if it ought to be obvious, “it’s a fire-carving. Master made this one himself. Don’t you have them where you’re from? Master has his apprentices learn to make them while they’re studying, ‘cause it’s about controlling your mana stream and the size of the flame and… stuff.”

He wiggles his fingers vaguely, but Anders leans closer to the sculpture, enthralled. “Magic as an art form? That’s incredible. We’d never even get the chance to study something like that in the Circle, and once you’re outside, well…”

“Really? Master does it _all_ the time. Sometimes he gets so immersed in it that he forgets to eat and sleep. I used to…” Cyron trails off. Hawke tries to place his tone. Bitterness? Regret? No; fondness, and, beneath it, grief. “Master loves art. It’s his passion. Do you want to see more of his work?”

He shows them around the gallery, taking time to explain each piece they encounter. At first nothing particularly surprises Hawke; there are woodcuts of cathedrals and men in flowing robes, broken up by simple still-lifes and even animal portraits. Anders is enchanted by a tall sculpture of Archon Hessarian, at first seeming to be hewn of glass, but revealed at the touch to be entirely made of enchanted ice. Then as they progress to the other side of the room, Hawke notices a strange mosaic taking up one of the walls from ceiling to floor. It depicts a man with pointed ears cradling a fawn in one arm, his other hand aloft. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that? Master didn’t make that. His family’s had it for ages, though; he says his mother _always_ bragged about it because it was rescued from this ancient city. Arla-ham or something.”

“Maker,” whispers Anders, as it hits him. “He means Arlathan.”

“That was it! Arlathan…” Cyron looks at the mosaic, even stepping closer to touch his fingertips to the tiles. He’s practically palm to palm with an elf immortalised in stone thousands upon thousands of years ago in the greatest citadel his people ever established… and he has no idea. Hawke feels himself holding his breath, but Cyron simply draws his hand away and laughs. “It’s a bit ugly, isn’t it? Look at his huge nose.”

He snorts, then catches himself as he hears footsteps in the hallway. Suddenly his relaxed posture and expression tighten, and he motions for them to stand quietly as he goes to attend the door.

“Master,” he calls into the hallway, so they know before they even see him. “I brought him down here, like you asked. His companion, too, Master.”

“Good boy.”

Hawke feels as if the ice statue of Hessarian has just wrapped its hands around his throat. His eyes don’t even move to the door when Danarius enters, at least not right away; Anders has to bump his hand with his own for him to look over and take proper notice.

He is surprised at how much like a normal old man he looks. From Fenris’ descriptions he had expected someone much more obviously despicable, but he simply smiles as he walks in, placing his hand on Cyron’s head as he bows and ruffling his hair almost affectionately. The slave looks stunned as he stands up, and stays silent from then on.

“Champion, is it? Vair Hawke?” When he nods, Danarius looks to Anders. “And your friend is…?”

“Anders,” says Hawke. He tries a little smile. “He’s… from the Anderfels.”

Danarius laughs. Cheerfully. Normally. “A pleasure to meet you both, then. Has Cyron been showing off? How embarrassing.”

Hawke shakes his head. “Not at all. He spoke more highly of you.”

“Ah, well, he has always been very devoted. An admirable quality, really.” He taps the elf’s shoulder. “Cyron. Show the Champion’s friend to the dining room, would you? I’ve been very anxious to speak to him, as you know.”

Anders opens his mouth as if to protest, but Danarius cuts him off.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t steal him away for more than an hour.” He smiles, and this time Hawke can see the cruel glimmer peeking from beneath his hospitable veil. “He is the guest of honour, after all.”

If nothing else, Hawke has to admit it’s clever. Having Cyron tail them as well as subtly distance them from the other guests, isolating them in the art gallery before finally confronting them personally… they aren’t dealing with a moustache-twirling moron, more concerned with peacocking than practicality. This is a man who’s thought very long and hard about how to deal with just such a situation, and they have no choice but to react on the fly.

“Go ahead, Anders,” says Hawke. He’s surprised; he isn’t shaking. He feels braver now in a way only the terrified can understand. “I’d like to talk to our host.”

Anders nods and goes with Cyron. Danarius closes the door behind them.

“Do you like the gallery?” he asks congenially.

“It’s a bit beyond me,” Hawke admits. “We don’t use magic this way in the South. All of this is… a little overwhelming.”

“Culture shock is common for Southern mages,” says Danarius, fingertips dragging lazily over the fire-carved cathedral as he passes it. “You were all raised to be ashamed of your abilities, or simply to live in fear. Many of you are stunted by your Chantry or by simple ignorance—but you, I understand, are _not_ stunted.”

“I’m sure I’m not up to Tevinter standards.” Hawke finds himself laughing. “I’ve barely gotten by in the Free Marches.”

“Yet you became a Champion in one of the most conservative city-states in Thedas,” says Danarius, standing just metres away now. “Underdogs are as Tevinter as—well, as _dogs_ are Fereldan.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Danarius only smiles. “Now you know.”

 _Fenris,_ Hawke thinks, desperately, _just tell me. Just say_ something _. Where is he?_

A breath. “I understand that you were familiar with something of mine.”

He tries to remember himself. Varric said to keep as close to the truth as possible, so he can’t be caught in a lie later—but surely the truth is only going to hurt him here? He steels himself. “I suppose you mean Fenris?”

“Yes, him. You see, he became lost when I visited Seheron a few years ago. The experience seemed to… confuse him.” Danarius turns away and faces the mosaic instead. Hawke uses the reprieve to clench his hands for a moment, stop his fingers from shaking. “He’s been missing for some time and was—well—adverse to returning home. I’ve only just now managed to bring him back.”

He swallows. “I see.”

“I only ask because he mentioned you. Often. Loudly.” Hawke flinches just before Danarius turns to face him again, shaking his head slowly. “I hope there’s no misunderstanding. He is mine, after all.”

“Sorry; what sort of misunderstanding?” He smiles again, even though his blood is boiling. _He’s not yours. He’s not_ yours _._

“It happens quite often, actually. Slaves don’t understand independence, you see. Many who escape simply imprint on a new master; I assumed he’d chosen you. Another man, another mage…” Danarius takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Unless that wasn’t your relationship? How did you know him?”

He tries so hard not to think it—tries so hard not to remember kissing Fenris for the first time or the way he smiled and how utterly _pathetic_ they’d both been about it, how his companions had teased them and laughed and how nice that had been, knowing that you felt something so wonderful so much that it shone out of you where everyone could see.

Even after Fenris had left him that night he had known that it still meant something. He hadn’t minded waiting; he was sad, but he’d expected it. When Fenris was ready they would talk again, he knew. That was fine. He’d still seen him every day and held his hands as they turned the pages of the simplest books in his library. He’d still known that they would be together some day.

And now they aren’t.

Hawke can’t hurt here, can’t cry here—if he ever wants to see Fenris again, he has to be better than that. He wets his lips with his tongue. “He asked me for help when he first arrived in Kirkwall, but he had nothing to repay me with. He offered his skills instead.”

“Which of his skills did you take advantage of?” Danarius leans in closer, as if confiding a private joke. “He has many, after all.”

 _Shut up,_ he thinks, remembering how Fenris’ back had shivered when he touched him skin to skin.

“He’s a very gifted fighter,” he says, as calmly as he can. “He assisted me in combat.”

There’s a pause. A frown. “Assisted… you?”

With something like wonder, Hawke realises he’s confused him… but he isn’t foolish enough to bask in his brief victory. “Often. Most of my companions aren’t heavy hitters; he was a great help.”

“Ah.” Danarius looks away. There is something he’s withholding, and though Hawke can’t make it out yet he knows it’s his only hope so far. Of course, Danarius seems to know that, too. “So, you didn’t take him to bed with you?”

It feels like a slap, but Hawke is used to verbal slaps with the company he keeps. This, at least, he refuses to relinquish. “Why would I do that?”

Danarius leans in closer again. “There isn’t any shame in fancying elves. Many of my colleagues fancied him, in fact, once upon a time.”

Hawke thinks about what he’d said before. “ _Assisted you?”_. The ‘ _you_ ’ had bothered him, not the ‘ _assisting_ ’. “I’m sure that was frustrating.”

“You’ve no idea. Most people are happy to share their slaves with friends, and assume everyone thinks the same—so it’s very difficult to get them to keep their hands to themselves.” He laughs lowly. Hawke deeply considers hitting him. “But Fenris is as selective as I am, which is why I was curious.”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” Hawke says, making sure to turn the tightness in his throat into laughter instead.

Leaning away again, Danarius looks him up and down. Finally he smiles to himself and meets his eyes again. “I suppose it was a little intrusive of me to ask. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. Walk with me, won’t you? We should return to the party before we’re missed.”

“I almost forgot.” There is more to this—much more to this—than he’s letting on, Hawke knows. He’s smart enough to realise he’s under suspicion now, just not brave enough to push his luck much further.

“Forgot? I imagine half the guest-list is here just in case you are. Your dealings with the Qunari are quite well-known here.” Danarius motions to the door and begins leading him out. Hawke thinks he might feel less smothered once they leave the gallery, but the feeling doesn’t dissipate even as they stroll into the hall. “Not even many magisters could claim to have defeated an Arishok in single combat. What did you use?”

He blinks. “My… my magic.”

“No, what _kind_ of magic?” He tries again. “What do you usually use?”

“Oh. I’m a spirit healer.”

Danarius stops walking to frown at him. “A what?”

“A—a spirit healer. I—”

“Dear boy, I _know_ what a spirit healer is.” He shakes his head. “But you can’t expect me to believe you killed an arishok with—with spirit healing.”

Hawke frowns. “Of course not. I just kept myself healthy and struck from a distance. It… took a long time.”

“Then you’ll have to correct the storytellers. Here we were under the impression that you froze his blood in his veins and then set him on fire. We have a tendency to romanticise these sorts of stories. It’s that culture shock again, hm?”

 “Yes, it’s still a little jarring.” He smiles. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

“Ah, so you’re planning to stay in Tevinter?”

What was the story they’d prepared…? “Perhaps. Things haven’t been going so well for mages in Kirkwall. Even with my status I think… it might be best to move on.”

“I agree. You’ve been quite wasted there. It’s one of the reasons I invited you, in fact.” Danarius stops him, right before the door back into the main hall, placing his hands on his shoulders. “If you do choose to stay here, I’d be very interested in apprenticing you.”

“Me?” He has only seconds to react to a curve-ball neither he nor any of his companions anticipated. Is ‘no’ even an option? It might be even more dangerous than openly confronting Danarius, but there’s no question it would bring him closer to Fenris. “I… don’t know how it works.”

“How did you learn magic, then, if you never studied with anyone? Were you part of a Circle?”

He shakes his head. “No, I lived on a farm. My father taught me while I was growing up.”

“I see…” He does, for his efforts, see Danarius briefly disguising an urge to wrinkle his nose. “And where did he study?”

“I don’t know. He never said.”

“Well, if it interests you, I can give you a proper education. Teach you to use magic in ways you’ve never dreamed.” He holds open the door for him. “Magic has many purposes here. You could build something; hurt someone; create a masterpiece; even run for politics. Where you are from you learn to simply hold the tool. Here there is a school for all means of applying it.”

Hawke takes a slow breath. “And what do you teach?”

“Is it not obvious? I am an artist.” Danarius beams as they approach the banquet table. To his relief, Hawke is able to pick out Anders easily from the crowd—he’s still with Cyron, apparently being forced to examine every square inch of architecture in the main hall. “I do, of course, teach my apprentices certain other skills. Duelling is a matter of etiquette in Tevinter; all mages may be expected to participate at one time or another. I shouldn’t like to see one of my charges hurt, so I try to bestow on them… advantages.”

“That would be helpful, I’m sure.”

“You sound hesitant. You are considering it, aren’t you? Do. It’s only a matter of time before my colleagues start trying to get their hooks into you as well and I confess I’m quite attached to you already.”

“I-I see. So you aren’t… upset, then?  About Fenris?”

For a moment Hawke thinks he might have been too forward in bringing him up again, but Danarius only waves his hand dismissively. “Ah, that. No; as I said, it’s a simple misunderstanding and you are more than happy to relinquish him to me, are you not?”

Tension builds in his chest again. His ribs seem to tighten in on themselves, making his heart strain to keep beating as he lies. “Absolutely. He’s yours, isn’t he?”

“Besides, you will have use of him yourself from time to time if you do choose to study here—by extension, of course. He is rarely apart from me.”

Hawke pauses. “He isn’t here tonight, though.”

Danarius sniffs and looks away from him again. “No, he’s, ah, indisposed. Gets terribly seasick, you see. The trip wasn’t kind to him.”

“Oh.” The implication is clear—Fenris is off-limits for now. But perhaps if he _does_ accept the offer…

“Is your friend looking to be apprenticed, too?” Danarius asks quite suddenly, pointing to Anders across the table. “I prefer to only have one at a time—though I’d be making an exception for you—but I could refer him to someone else, perhaps.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replies, immediately. “He has someone in mind already, I think. I wouldn’t want to, er, offend anyone if he’s already spoken to them.”

“Very well. What about you, though?” His tone darkens. “I shouldn’t like to think I was wasting my time.”

“I’m… flattered you would ask. I simply—simply wasn’t prepared to have this conversation.” He can feel his hands starting to fidget and urges himself, fruitlessly, to stop. “If I say yes, what happens then?”

“My other apprentice, Varania, lives here in the mansion with me. I find that total immersion is best. It’s a large commitment, but I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think you were capable.”

“So, ah, what would I be studying?”

“I like my apprentices to learn the arts, first. Fire-carvings, then perhaps we would move onto ice. I won’t have you working with raw lyrium until I’m satisfied with those two. And no,” he amends, “I won’t show you how I made the tattoos. That is _quite_ private.”

It hits him then, like a lightning bolt. “Fenris’ tattoos? They’re… art?”

“All of him is. I would have thought it was clear—though perhaps it’s difficult to tell when you can’t see the entire canvas?” Danarius laughs. “Yes. Of course, you’ll see he’s a functional piece as well; I spent years researching that technique. So many slaves simply died—I even ruined Cyron before I could get it to work on someone—but Fenris…”

Hawke wants to dissolve into the floor, out of the world and into another where people don’t just _think_ like this, don’t just _do_ things like this. Fenris as a piece of art? So he was more than a body guard—perhaps without even knowing it. It’s a kind of cruelty Hawke finds himself completely incapable of understanding. Just how long can he stay calm in the face of it?

“My little wolf was perfect in every way. I consider him my magnum opus.” He pours himself a glass of wine, and tips it to him. “Thank you for keeping him in good condition. He didn’t know any better, after all.”

What can he say to that? “I didn’t think anything of it. You’re... welcome.”

“Let me know when you’ve decided about the apprenticeship. I’ll ask you again before you go.”

“No need for that,” says Hawke. The words feel like stones in his mouth. “I’ve already decided.”


	5. I Think I Have Had My Fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's decision to accept Danarius' offer of an apprenticeship in order to infiltrate House Virgam is poorly received by his companions- and at the house itself, tensions are only growing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, everyone! Sorry for the wait. Lots of stuff came up, things got slow and... honestly, this was just a really difficult chapter to write for some reason. I ended up having to change the original chapter plan and split what I had intended into two sections to give myself more space. Hopefully it'll be okay.  
> I know that this story might possibly seem like the OC Super Mega Happy Fun Hour (alternate title _Vair Hawke is Terrible At Everything: The Musical_ ) so I hope that isn't too tiresome for anyone. Don't be sad, we're coming over and down a little hill in this regard.
> 
> Note: This chapter alludes fairly blatantly to sexual and emotional abuse + brainwashing--but I'll just be clear and say that nothing explicit to that effect is ever going to happen "on screen" in the story. All the same, your mileage may vary so I just wanted to account for that.  
> EDIT: I'm really sorry. I also forgot to put a warning here for animal death. It's only a brief scene, but still.

Back at the inn, Isabela is the first to react. “You did _what_?”

“I had to,” he says quickly. “It’s the only way.”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously? I found _five_ ways in without even having to try hard. We could have been in and outin a few hours.”

“We’ve been over this, Rivaini,” Varric cuts in. “It’s a sensitive situation. We’ve got to take it slow.”

“I don’t see _why_ ,” Isabela says tensely. “He’s been there for a week!”

“I _know_ he has!” Varric snaps, then cuts himself off. “Just… go on, Hawke.”

Perhaps everyone has been keeping calm so far for his benefit. He’s been remiss in remembering that Fenris is not only _his_ friend; from now on, he should try to be more considerate. It’s difficult to be aware of himself when he’s so nervous, though. Even now, he can’t tell if his knees are shaking. “Danarius says if I become his apprentice, I’ll move into the estate with him. I can come and go whenever I want. I’ll find Fenris easily—you three won’t have to risk anything.”

“But I didn’t sense Fenris at all last night,” says Anders. “Perhaps he isn’t even _at_ House Virgam.”

“Danarius said he was ill from the trip, but he’s there. He _is_ ,” Hawke says, firmly.

Anders hesitates. A shadow passes over his face; the room feels very still.

“Hawke,” he says, quietly. “Isn’t there a chance—a _small_ chance—that Fenris is… is not alive any more?”

The weight of the words almost sends him to his knees, but Hawke shakes his head. “No, there’s no way. He’s far too valuable to Danarius.”

“It _is_ possible that he’s not there,” says Varric. “But if he’s hidden somewhere else, we’d have to go inside to know anyway.”

“Couldn’t your contacts find anything?”

Varric shakes his head. “What I do know so far is that Danarius was in good esteem with the Magisterium up until Fenris escaped. He wasted a lot of time and resources after that; people are saying it’s too much for one slave, he’s going soft…”

“So… that’s good, isn’t it?” Hawke says hopefully. “Maybe he thinks apprenticing me will help his reputation?”

He shrugs. “Could be. I’m not quite sure my information is accurate. I only heard from people who didn’t like the guy—and magisters will talk a lot of shit about their rivals. What about the party?”

“It seemed normal, all things considered,” says Anders, “but I guess I wouldn’t know. Thatslave made me stare at every square inch of the main hall. If I walked away, he’d just follow me.”

“I’m sure he didn’t have much more choice than you did,” Hawke admonishes him. “We know he was told to distract us.”

At first he thinks Anders has let it go. Then he says, “Everyone has a choice.”

That’s more than Hawke can bear. “They’re _slaves_ , Anders; they had their choices taken from them. I would think you could understand that.”

“I do understand,” Anders retorts, bristling. “It’s why I know it’s not that simple—you can’t take _all_ of someone’s free will. People are people. In the Circle—”

“It’s _not_ the Circle,” Hawke snaps. He sees Anders’ head tip back, as if he’s slapped him. “Wait—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—it isn’t that—”

“Isn’t it, though?” Anders says bitterly. “You don’t think it’s the same. The _only_ difference is that here, mages are the ones holding the whips. In Kirkwall— _everywhere_ else—we’re the ones being beaten and raped and killed and—”

“I don’t care!” Hawke cries, before he can stop himself. Being here now, he understands why people are afraid of mages; of course he does. Clear as day he remembers being seven and pulling snails off the cabbages gently, very gently, and then seeing a pair of dark eyes peeking out from under the leaves.

“How can you say that?” Anders is staring at him, horrified. “ _How_ can you not care?”

“Because—because it’s nothing to do with me!”

He’d known that a rabbit would eat the cabbages and dig up the garden, and that the neighbour’s dogs would surely kill it—so he’d patiently coaxed it out into the sunlight with a leaf, and scooped it up in his hands when it was calm enough to touch.

It had been a hot day, but he saw frost dusting the creature’s fur where his hands touched it. Then the frost had started spreading and the rabbit stiffened startled and kicked but he kept holding fast, startled speechless, starting to realise, starting to feel the ice seeping from his own fingers _somehow_ and he’d said sorry sorry sorry little rabbit, tried to make it better, tried to make it warm again but it burned up black in his hands fur in flames then falling as he forced himself to let go but still kicking twitching screaming on the ground, turning the grass brown and bloody. His father had run outside to find him standing over it as its twitching finally ceased, crying like a baby.

 _My poor boy,_ he’d said, taking his hands away from his face and holding them tight. _I’m so sorry._

“It has everything to do with you!” Anders shouts, ignoring Varric’s attempts to get between them. “ _You’re_ a mage!”

He was a mage, his father had explained, and over the years he’d showed him how to hide it, shown him why he had to. He knew, of course, that his family loved him no matter what—but he also saw how much of a burden magic was upon them all.

He came to Kirkwall. He met blood mages openly patrolling the streets at night, creeping in and out of the Gallows or from across the sea. He met Fenris, covered head-to-toe in magic’s wounds, and been so afraid to make it worse, to hold another living thing in his hands and feel it go up in flames. Why had Fenris trusted him? Why, when he still doesn’t trust himself at times?

_You’re a mage._

He is a mage: the same as Anders and Merrill—and the same as Danarius. He is a mage: a ready vessel for the Fade’s darkest denizens; a ticking time-bomb; a twisted, unfortunate mistake.

_You’re a mage._

“I don’t _want_ to be a mage!” he bursts out. “I hate it! And if I didn’t need to use magic to help Fenris, I’d never do it again.”

Anders comes closer until they’re almost chest to chest. “Can you even hear yourself? Magic is _not_ the problem here, but—”

“Will you two just _stop_?” Isabela takes them each by one shoulder and pushes them apart. “This is a little ridiculous.”

“The last thing we need is you two turning on each other,” Varric adds. “Let’s calm down and stay focussed on the real enemy.”

Hawke can hear his own breathing too loudly. By the time it slows again, all of them are quiet.

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. I need to go now,” he says. “Danarius will be—”

“Wait.” Anders takes hold of his arm. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—don’t go. Not like this.”

Hawke shivers as he pulls away. “I’m sorry, too, but I have to.”

“Anders is right,” says Varric, coming to his side. “You’re not ready. Come on. Let’s calm down and talk this out.”

Isabela says nothing, but looking at her he understands anyway. She of all people wouldn’t stop him—would leave him alone to face the music, if that was what he asked—but she doesn’t have to approve.

“No. Thank you, but… no,” he says. “If I don’t go now, then I don’t know if…”

“Hawke.” Varric looks up at him, quite seriously. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. But this is not a good idea.”

“Then… stay here for another week.” He lays his hand on Varric’s shoulder, then drifts away from them slowly. “I’ll find a way to keep in contact with you.”

All three of them are watching him now, as if he might implode. Perhaps he might. Isn’t that what mages do? Deep inside even Anders knows this, Hawke is sure. When this is over maybe he will have at least a little more insight into what makes people like them so volatile.

Nobody stops him as he quietly opens the door, leaving his things behind, and ventures back out onto the streets, weaving between the sweeping slaves, passing beneath flickering torches set at the mouths of each building. Halfway there, he feels a chill running through him, as if he’s done something terribly and irreversibly foolish. Should he go back? His friends could help him; that’s all they ever wanted to do. Is it only his pride stopping him? Wouldn’t he have to feel proud for that to be true?

It rains gently as he keeps walking, slowly turning the cobblestones glossy. Hawke stops and stares down the road ahead. Before him the streetlights start to thin out as the shops and inns melt into sprawling estates. Here, many slaves have small hoods or coats to wear in the rain as they tend to gardens and pathways, and they scatter as he passes, some bowing or excusing themselves as they hasten to get out of his way. His impulse every time is to try and comfort them, somehow—to tell them not to be afraid—but they’re always gone before he can say anything.

If he turned back now, he knows that he could apologise to Anders properly. Isabela would make light of things and Varric… Varric would know what to do, somehow. Looking back he sees how often he’s leaned on his friends for direction. What would make him think he could do this alone? In any case, the gates of House Virgam loom ahead, and it is much too late to turn back now.

A woman he doesn’t recognise answers the door when he knocks. She’s elven, but dressed too finely to be a slave, with wide, worried eyes and blazing red hair.

“Danarius expects me,” he says.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she says with a sternness belied by her anxious appearance, almost closing the door on him. “The party is over.”

“N-no, no, wait!” He slams his hand down on the door to keep it open, then quickly withdraws it when she flinches. “I’m sorry; please excuse me. I’m Vair Hawke. He talked to me about an apprenticeship.”

“Hawke…” She takes her time to process it. Then, reluctantly, she holds the door open for him. “All right, come in. But take your boots off and don’t drip on anything. The slaves have enough cleaning to do as it is.”

He feels a little foolish entering the mansion again barefoot, and more foolish still when the woman glares pointedly at his outer robes, upon which he removes them as well and hangs them on a coat-rack near the main entrance. As he makes his way into the main hall, he sees the woman at the foot of the stairs, talking to Cyron. He nods at her and sets off upstairs, leaving the two of them alone again.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says to her, holding out his hand to shake. “And I apologise again if I… well, for how I—”

“My name is Varania,” she says. She doesn’t take his hand. “And if you must know, Danarius already has an apprentice: me. Unlike you, I worked hard to be here.”

“Oh.” He smiles gingerly. “Well, not to worry, Varania. I won’t get in your way.”

“Stop. No mage with that attitude stands a chance here. If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, it isn’t working.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, fidgeting. “I was just taught—”

“To lower yourself, I bet. Spare me; I’ve been there.” She has her back to him, but something tells him that if she turned around she’d be scrunching up her nose. “Look, we’ll be studying together, and I’ll be civil—but I’m letting you know now that outside of that, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“That seems a little harsh for someone you don’t know,” he says. “I told you I’m not trying to compete.”

“That remains to be seen.” Why does she sound familiar? He doesn’t remember ever meeting another woman like her. “And I do know you—know of you, at least. I suppose I was expecting more.”

“I can’t really help it if people try to make me sound bigger than I am,” he says, laughing. Then, “I wish they wouldn’t.”

“He didn’t.”

“‘He’?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says darkly. Her gaze seems to be fixed at the top of the stairs. “You’ll see.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” she repeats, and laughs bitterly.

Footsteps sound at the head of the staircase, and Cyron appears first, leaning over the railing to smile down at them both. Danarius comes next, in no hurry, as if walking against a steady current.

Behind them both, in tow, is Fenris. Only he doesn’t look like Fenris any more.

Perhaps it’s the slackness of his expression—no tension in the jaw or brow, no turn of the lip. He walks behind Danarius, always watching him, with his eyes very still. His shirt has been removed; he still wears a belt and leggings, and a pair of silver bracers. Around his neck and shoulders is a tall, thick collar like the ones he’s seen on Qunari mages. Even without a leash attached, he can envision the invisible cord tying him to his master—yes, his master. Until now, Fenris has never looked like a slave to him.

Danarius greets him, or he must have. His reaction must have come too slowly, because by the time the magister is standing beside him he’s laughing, reaching up to pat his shoulder. “Of course, you haven’t seen him yet. You remember Serah Hawke, don’t you, Fenris?”

Fenris remains silent at his side. He looks up at him, then over to Varania, who turns her head. Danarius runs his hand down his back and offers him forward with a gentle push.

Hawke’s mind tells him that he should just strike now—strike Danarius down, take Fenris, and figure the rest out later. But when Fenris looks at him he freezes, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. Green eyes study him slowly, trailing from his face down to his feet and back up. His lips stretch into an uncertain grimace, and he looks back at Danarius almost helplessly, his eyes wide. The magister opens his arm and Fenris goes to him again, kneeling so the crest of his forehead touches his palm.

“It’s no matter, little wolf. I thought this might happen.” He turns to Hawke again. “He was a mess when he arrived, you see. His lyrium hadn’t been maintained properly in years—it’s lucky we found him when we did, poor thing. Varania, you remember?”

“I don’t like to think about it.” She still won’t look at him, though Hawke sees Fenris squeezing his eyes shut as she speaks, as if her voice is hurting him. “He’d lost his mind. Like an animal.”

None of that sounds right to Hawke. But he still can’t move, can’t speak. If Danarius hadn’t noticed him acting strangely before, he would now.

“I imagine it must be… surreal,” says Danarius. “The Fenris you knew must have been very volatile. His markings are meant to be stabilised twice a year. Very powerful magic, but dangerous. If it isn’t done properly, the lyrium will soften his mind.”

“He seemed quite lucid, when…” He hesitates, watching Fenris roll his cheek against the magister’s hand. “…When I knew him.”

“Believe it or not, that’s how I knew you were a worthy apprentice.” Danarius strokes Fenris’ hair and he sinks down onto the floor beside him, eyes downcast. “The lyrium inside him can be drawn upon by a powerful mage in combat. I theorised that if it wasn’t, he might begin to absorb surrounding magical energies indiscriminately… obviously, not ideal.”

“No,” says Hawke.

“It was possible that, without frequent use, the lyrium inside him would grow out of control and eventually kill him. So someone who fought at his side must have been powerful enough to tap into his abilities, even unconsciously.” Danarius smiles at him. He winks. “I had a feeling when I started hearing the stories pouring out of Kirkwall. I really must thank you; though, of course, this is only the beginning.”

“I’m glad,” he says, though his heart is breaking simply to look at Fenris, kneeling on the marble floor. “But why… doesn’t he remember?”

“Unfortunate…” Danarius looks down at Fenris as one might a particularly exotic pet, declawed and muzzled. “I had hoped not to leave him with any memories that might confuse him, you see. He is only a slave; freedom is too large an idea for him.”

“But it didn’t…” He means to stop the words before they come out of his mouth, but it’s too late; Danarius and Varania are both looking at him, now. “He wasn’t hurt, was he?”

Varania looks away again, but Danarius motions for Fenris to get to his feet again and beckons him over, lifting the collar on one side to reveal a small, red scratch cradled between the branches of lyrium crawling up his shoulder.

“This is the most serious wound remaining from his rescue. Other than that, nobody has laid a hand on him that he doesn’t want to be there.” He laughs again. “You are such a gentle soul, Hawke. Few people would be so concerned for a slave, even a fine one.”

“We don’t have slaves where I’m from,” he says. “It… can be difficult to remember.”

“You’ll pick it up.” Danarius tells him, motioning for Fenris to kneel once more. “Did your family ever keep mabari? I understand they’re popular in Fereldan. It’s quite the same thing. For example, if you want a good animal, you need to know its history. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I… suppose. Where I was from, nobody minded.”

“But you understand the principle behind it, yes? The best slaves are from good lineage—we select for obedience, appearance, strength… it depends on the slave. Fenris and some of the others here were sired by one of the Archon’s personal attendants. You can tell by the jaws on the men, mostly. Cyron has it too—a shame what happened with him.”

“Wait—they’re related?”

“Oh, a lot of them are. That’s why you have to be careful about affairs, especially with the elves. Animals are far easier to control in that respect.” He smiles again. Varania, trembling, stalks off into one of the side rooms.

“Right.” He’s starting to feel nauseous again. “This is a lot to take in.”

“Of course. You don’t need to know all this right away—and goodness, where are my manners? You walked here in the rain, didn’t you?”

He nods.

“Cyron will take you to one of the guest rooms for now. Give him your things to be washed; there will be clean clothes laid out for you in the morning. Though really— I didn’t know you’d be so eager as to come back in the middle of the night.” He pats his back again, chuckling. “Not that I was asleep. Isn’t that right, little wolf?”

Fenris lays his head against his leg and says nothing. Hawke’s teeth clench as the magister runs his fingers through his white hair once more, then tugs it almost playfully, bringing him to his feet.

“Goodnight, Hawke. I’ll see you and Varania in the morning.”

As Danarius makes his way back up the stairs, Cyron scurries down from the stairwell to meet him. Hawke can’t make out what they say to each other, and doesn’t care. He’s more focussed on Fenris; silent, staring Fenris. The only show of expression he sees him make happens when Cyron passes him on the stairs. He looks right at him over his shoulder, then lashes out behind him with one leg; the barest movement, but enough to send Cyron stumbling down the remainder of the steps. _Why?_ Hawke wants to ask. The Fenris he knew would never have hurt another slave. He could be standoffish, but to the meek he was always gentle. It’s as if everything that made him who he was has been burned out of him, leaving behind only a polished skeleton.

Is he still saving Fenris if Fenris isn’t there any more? Is it even possible for things to be the way they were again?

“So…” Cyron cuts into his thoughts. Hawke had forgotten he was even there—his fear had completely taken over, until he was barely aware of his surroundings. Luckily, nobody but Cyron is there to see it. “You want to go upstairs?”

“Ah, wait, I’ll get my—” He looks down and sees the robe he’d taken off already folded over one of his arms. “All right. Of course.”

It seems to take much longer than necessary for Cyron to take him up to his room. More than once Hawke sees him wobble so much that he drops the robe he’s carrying, though he won’t let him pick it up for him. There is certainly more to this than meets the eye. More than unkempt, Cyron seems _ill_ —why has nobody helped him? Even if that wasn’t possible for some reason, Hawke can’t quite understand why the poor man seems to have been assigned to him in his condition. Is Danarius trying to make a point of some kind? If so, Hawke is sure he doesn’t understand it. Every time he tries to think about what purpose Cyron might hold for Danarius, he can’t help but pity him all the more.

“Thank you,” he says, when they reach the guest room and Cyron holds open the door for him. Hawke doesn’t know how he can sleep seeing what he’s just seen. He feels that the open door is the only thing keeping him from sinking onto the floor in tears—but Cyron closes the door behind both of them, looking up at him expectantly. “Oh… um, it’s all right, you—you can go, if you want to.”

Cyron tilts his head, fiddling with the top button on his tunic. “Master said…”

“Oh, I—I know,” Hawke laughs, feeling the sob in the back of his throat. “And you’ve been very kind. But I’m going to bed now, so you don’t have to…”

Cyron undoes the button, eyes on the floor. His hand sinks slowly to the next.

“Oh. Oh, no. You don’t have to—oh, Maker, no.”

“Master says you fancy elves,” Cyron looks up at him, smiling. “I don’t mind. You’re nice, so—”

“ _I_ mind.” Hawke can’t look at him like this any more—he goes to him and does up his buttons again, patting it closed. “Here. You don’t have to do anything else for me, all right? Go and get some rest.”

“’Rest’,” repeats Cyron, eyes trailing away. He shifts his balance from foot to foot, swaying. “Where? How long?”

Even Orana hadn’t had obedience this deeply entrenched in her head when he’d met her. Hawke tries to speak as gently as possible. “I… well, wherever you like. As long as you like.”

“I… don’t know.” Cyron’s frowning now, eyes flicking toward the door every so often. “Master said stay with you.”

“I know, Cyron. You’re doing a good job. Thank you.” Hawke holds out his hand, palm up, for him to take. “Listen—nobody is going to be angry. Why don’t you just stay here and talk to me, then? Would that be all right?”

There’s a long pause, and Hawke’s throat tightens anxiously. Then Cyron shrugs. “Guess so. Talk about what?”

Hawke knows there are a lot of sensible responses to this. He could ask about Danarius, Fenris, Tevinter culture, any number of useful things—but right now he feels that anything Cyron tells him will have been extracted by unintentional force rather than trust. He tries a smile, sitting down on the foot of the bed while Cyron seats himself on the edge of the nearby dresser. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Why d’you keep asking me?” Cyron laughs, though he sounds tired. “Slaves don’t know stuff like that.”

“You don’t know what you like?”

“Master,” he says, quickly. “I just liked Master. Master loves me.”

“I’m sure he does,” Hawke says, resisting the chill closing around his stomach. “You always do what he asks, don’t you? I can see you’re… trying hard.”

“I—” Cyron’s voice shorts out and he turns his face away, blinking rapidly. Hawke sees him swallowing a lump in his throat. “He doesn’t now, but I tried. I was his favourite. I tried.”

“You tried?” Hawke leans in closer, but Cyron no longer seems to be listening.

“Fenris did it. I couldn’t do it. Didn’t… should’ve…”

“Shh…” Hawke gets up off the end of the bed and kneels in front of him, laying his hands on his shoulders when they start to shake. “What is it, Cyron? What should you have done?”

He looks up again, tears in his eyes, lips trembling as he points at his nicked ear and bows his head. The ear is cut very cleanly, about two inches below where the point of his ear must have once been. What Hawke hasn’t seen until now is the scar a few inches below it, snaking along the side of his neck from where it emerges below his tunic. Just beneath his clothing, the redness of the scar gives way to a pale, familiar line. Though it’s shadowed by the collar of his tunic, Hawke can see how the lyrium beneath the skin rises to the light.

“I should’ve lay still.”


	6. Don't Haunt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke befriends the elven slave who has been shadowing him since he arrived in Tevinter. Meanwhile, his studies with Danarius are off to an uncomfortable start...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this hasn't been updated in a long time and for that I'm sorry. Life happened and I was busy for ages, and then there was a bit of a freak accident where this chapter sort of ate itself (the Word file got corrupted and turned it into gobbledygook, so I had to rescue the whole thing from excerpts I'd sent to people to proofread and rewrite everything else). Not sure I'm happy with the result, but I kind of just needed to finish this so I could move onto the next part. I'm sorry if it's not quite up to standard.
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a struggle. Lots of important info and stressful situations... I am feeling pessimistic just from writing it, so god knows how you guys will feel. P: Next chapter will be the upswing, maybe?
> 
> Hope everyone is having happy holidays and hopefully I will see you again much sooner.

_I should’ve lay still._

Cyron had said that Danarius had started near the base of his spine and worked up, but the pain had only gotten worse instead of dulling. He had been in shock after the first brand and couldn’t move, but once that wore off he’d simply panicked. He doesn’t remember what happened, to hear him tell it—but he knows that in the ensuing confusion, he’d lost almost half of his left ear.

Hawke had asked what Danarius did next. Cyron wouldn’t say. He kept shaking his head and repeating that he should’ve lay still.

Though he doesn’t know how, they had both fallen asleep some time after that—Hawke wakes up on one end of the chaise and, upon inspection, finds Cyron underneath it, curled in a ball. At first he feels too guilty to wake him, but the elf comes out on his own once he hears him walking around and hastily rushes out to fetch clean clothes for him.

The robe he returns with is a dull, murky green with grey padding around the chest and shoulders, and a little too short for Hawke in the hem and sleeves. He wonders if it’s Danarius’—it feels like something he would wear, and he feels all the more uncomfortable in it knowing this. He must have looked it, too, because when Cyron brings him down to the near-deserted dining room, Varania snorts at him and shakes her head.

Danarius isn’t here yet, and the few slaves who pop in and out of the kitchens don’t seem to have very much to do. One of them smiles at Varania as she hands her a plate of plain, buttered toast. She goes back into the kitchen and returns shortly after with another small plate; this one bears a small blackberry tart with a sweet-smelling red coulis and a few candied rose petals on one side of the plate.

Varania looks up at the slave; Hawke can’t make out her expression. Then she puts her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, ignoring both plates. Hesitantly, Hawke chooses a chair two places down from her.

“Good morning.” She doesn’t answer him. He lets it go and looks up at Cyron instead. “Would you like to sit with me?”

Cyron’s eyes widen. He falters, looking between Hawke and the chair and the door. “Serah Hawke—”

“Don’t,” snaps Varania, startling them both. “Are you trying to get him in trouble? Slaves aren’t allowed at the main table. He eats in the kitchens with the others.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Hawke stammers. “I didn’t know.”

Varania ignores him. “Cyron, go on. I asked Aurelia to bring your old clothes out for you.”

Cyron fidgets. “Master said I’m not supposed to wear—”

“He changed his mind.” She turns to Hawke, scowling. “Danarius asked me to tell you that he is giving Cyron to you. As a… welcome home present.”

“What?” Hawke jolts. “I-I can’t—I’ve never—”

“ _No_!” cries Cyron, suddenly, taking a step back from him. “I don’t want to! I—I thought—I thought—”

“Danarius says this is final,” Varania tells him firmly. Her voice softens, barely. “You should be glad. You know you were only being kept for—”

“For him,” Cyron insists, achingly. “For _him_.”

“Look,” says Hawke, carefully, “if he doesn’t want to…”

“ _You_ are taking him,” Varania pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, crossing to Cyron as he dissolves into tears. She hesitates, giving Hawke a hard look until he turns away. Then he can hear her hugging him. “This is safer for you, Cyron. You can still live here—”

“I was good,” Cyron sobs. “Why doesn’t he want me? I was good.”

Hawke turns his head enough to see them both. He feels as if he’s intruding, and looks away again.

“It isn’t _your_ fault,” Varania tells him, coldness creeping back into her voice. “We both know who to blame here.”

Cyron sniffs, then quiets down. “Yeah.”

“Go on. Please. I asked Aurelia to help you.”

“I’ll go.” He straightens up, drawing away from her, but before he can leave Hawke stands up to meet him. “Serah—Master?”

Hawke shakes his head. “How—how about you keep calling me Serah until you get used to it? For me, too. I’ve never had—w-well, I don’t know how this works. Are you all right?”

His eyes flicker away. “Yeah.”

He kneels slightly to be at his height. “Then… then why don’t you go and see this Aurelia? You can come back and find me when you’re ready. Would that be all right?”

Cyron swallows. Hawke wants to dry the edges of his eyes with his sleeve, like he’d done for his siblings when they were small. “S’fine.”

Varania sighs as she sits back down and Cyron plods off in the direction of the kitchens. Once he’s gone, she looks over at Hawke again. “You’re not that smart, are you?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m saying this as a favour, and I won’t repeat myself.” She leans closer. “Go home, Hawke.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, smiling quickly. “I’m here to—”

“You listen,” she hisses. “I know what kind of mage you are and there is _nothing_ for you here. The slaves here don’t need your saviour complex; they need masters. That is their _only_ chance. If you can’t be a _real_ mage and be that for them, then you’re putting them in danger _and_ making yourself look weak. I don’t suggest either.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop saying _sorry_. Look, you said you’d stay out of my way, so I’ll stay out of yours. But I’m not going to defend you when you make another mistake.” Varania rolls her eyes. “And you _will_.”

She turns away from him again to eat her toast, and that seems to be the end of it. Hawke says nothing, simply staring down at the empty placemat in front of him until he hears the door opening.

It’s Fenris, looking half-asleep, but nonetheless holding the door for Danarius as he enters. Danarius barely looks at him as he passes, simply going to his seat at the head of the table and then holding out his hand for Fenris to walk into. As Hawke watches, he takes hold of an elegant but sturdy-looking chain connected to the back of Fenris’ collar and fastens it to a leg of his chair. Fenris kneels, lays his head in his lap and closes his eyes tiredly.

“Good morning, Hawke,” says Danarius. “Did Varania give you my message? I meant to tell you last night, but didn’t want to disturb you.”

“She did.” Hawke swallows his loathing. Again. “Thank you very much. That was… thoughtful.”

“You will be doing me a favour.” Danarius absently strokes Fenris’ hair in his lap—he seems to have fallen asleep. “I was very fond of him before he was damaged, but ever since he’s been of little use to me. I do hope you don’t take it the wrong way? I was simply touched by how kindly you treated Fenris and thought this arrangement would suit both of you.”

“Not at all,” says Hawke, feeling as if he has very little breath with which to speak. “He’s… um, nice.”

“He’s still functional, at least,” Danarius goes on. “He’s getting older anyway—most of the pleasure slaves end up sacrificial once they pass thirty—but he’s still a good attendant. Obedient. Good stock, like Fenris, as I said before.”

Hawke stares back down at his placemat, silent. He is trying desperately to ignore the faint sound of Fenris’ breathing under the table, muted against Danarius’ robe, the slight shuffling of his shifting limbs. He is trying desperately not to think about the fact that he himself now owns a slave, too. What would Fenris think of him?

No. What would Fenris have _thought_ of him? Right now, Fenris thinks nothing—or, at least, nothing that he says aloud.

“You ought to know,” Danarius goes on, “that you will not be able to call yourself a Tevinter citizen for some time. Traditionally, a magister will sponsor you—you are indentured to him for some time, then you can qualify for citizenship.”

Hawke has a sudden, panicked vision of himself in ten years, still here, still swallowing his fear and disgust without having achieved anything. But he has been in this position before, and at least this time he knows it is not intended to be permanent. “I… did something similar when I moved to the Free Marches. What must I do?”

“Well, nothing, initially. I’ll take care of the bureaucracy; you concentrate on getting settled in. Now, in name you will be a servant—not a slave, there is a distinction—but I don’t intend to treat you as one.” He laughs softly. “Why waste good talent? I’d like you to begin your studies with me as soon as possible.”

On his other side, Hawke hears Varania scoff quietly before speaking up. “Danarius, will this interfere with my work?”

“Not at all. I daresay you could teach young Hawke a thing or two yourself,” he laughs. He frowns at Hawke again. “Oh, another thing—did you prefer Hawke or… was it Vair?”

“It was—is,” Hawke manages quickly, realising he hasn’t been giving his full attention to the conversation. “But ‘Hawke’ is fine. It, er… it reminds me of my family. Not a lot of people call me ‘Vair’.”

There’s a soft thud as Fenris sits up suddenly and bumps his head on the underside of the table. Hawke jumps a little. Danarius only laughs and places his hand on the elf’s head, hushing him. “Hawke it is, then. Now, before we begin, is there anything else you can tell me about your training?”

Hawke knows his leg is shaking under the table. “Not really. Father taught me what I knew, and then…”

“You called to a spirit, yes?” Danarius leans forward, curious. “What method did you use? What manner of entity?”

“I… I didn’t,” he manages. “They found me. I don’t know what they are.”

Danarius laughs. “You’re not speaking to your chantry mother. Everyone knows that’s nothing more than a party line.”

He shakes his head. “I’m telling you the truth. That’s all I know.”

“Well, you seem an honest boy…” Doubt lurks in Danarius’ expression as he leans back in his chair again, but he does not press further. “Ah, well. I imagine it will reveal itself to me soon enough.”

Varania stands again, stacking her plates. The motion catches Danarius’ eye; he looks at Hawke, as if the two of them are in on a private joke, then tilts his chin up to gaze at her down the table. “No need to do that, my dear. Not now.”

Freezing mid-motion, Varania lets one of her plates slide from her hand onto the dining room floor where it shatters, and storms out without another word.

“Moody, isn’t she?” Danarius murmurs under the table, scratching behind Fenris’ ear and making him sigh. “I wonder where she gets it.”

 

\---------------------

 

Fenris does not leave Danarius’ side. It never becomes less painful to see him this way—if Hawke could only separate them for a moment to speak to him privately, or if Fenris would even meet his eyes for just a second… but he hovers around Danarius like he is the sun, and Hawke is beginning to lose hope already. What message could he send to his friends now? “Fenris isn’t Fenris”? Or simply, “I’ve failed”?

_Not yet,_ comes a warm thought in the back of his mind, that does not feel quite his own. _Try._

“Now, you say you don’t know offensive magic?” Danarius is in the middle of saying.

He straightens up. “Just a little. I can’t really use it.”

“Then that is the first lesson I have to teach you,” says the magister, and his tone is almost kindly. “There is no ‘can’t’. You are a mage. There are no limits for people like us; we can do anything that we put our will to.”

“Should we?” asks Hawke, softly. “Father used to say he would let his magic serve what was best in him, not most base.”

“Just so,” Danarius says, standing over the bench he has prepared for their lesson. “And what did he think was best?”

“Protecting Mother,” says Hawke, “and my siblings and I, when we were born.”

“You have siblings?”

The swiftness with which Danarius latches onto the word startles him, and he hesitates. “Not now.”

“Nor do I,” says Danarius. His voice drifts into a quieter, more personal tone. “My brother passed on Seheron when we were youths. He was a healer, too, in fact—unfortunately, he was soft of both heart and mind. He defied orders to save an ox-man’s calf; shielded it with his magic and healed its wounds.”

At that, Hawke frowns. “Why was there a child on a battle field?”

“Battlefield?” Danarius only stares at him. The sick, heavy feeling in the bottom of Hawke’s stomach is back. “You do not understand our conflict with the Qunari, so I cannot fault you. But my brother was born here, raised here. He ought to have known that calves become bulls and gore their masters, even those with gentle hands.”

“The Qunari killed him anyway?”

“No. I did.” Danarius sits at the workbench now, calm, and hooks a wooden block towards him with one hand. Then he raises his other hand, as if beckoning, and slowly, a wispy ball of fire no larger than a child’s closed fist hovers from the hearth towards him. He begins working on the block with both hands, the flames tapering into unusual streams and threading through the wood as if being guided by an invisible needle. “In a way, I saved him. He certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to retain his status if he had returned to Minrathous. Treason is a high charge; the military court would have given him a much slower death, and one without dignity. Still, the pain of losing a sibling…”

Hawke sees Carver in his mind’s eye, placing his hand over his as he pressed the knife to his chest. His would have been a slow, painful death; but with his brother there to push the blade into his heart—

“…It is difficult to describe to one who does not know.” He looks up at Hawke again for a moment, letting the flames in his hands die. In front of him already is the emerging shape of a Qunari’s skull. “You are a gentle man, Hawke, but a good mage. I would teach you to be better than you are.”

It is in that instant that Hawke understands why Danarius has not yet harmed him, in spite of his clear suspicions. It is not that he doesn’t think there is anything wrong with him—in fact, it’s precisely that he does but believes he can temper it out of him, shape him as he shaped Fenris and the wood he burns into sculptures. It is also in that instant that he realises he is capable of exploiting this flaw in Danarius’ very nature… and that he likely won’t, at least not yet. Fool that he is, he is too stunned by the image of Carver melding with the brother in Danarius’ story, and too sickened at the realisation that they have something in common.

“Enough of this,” says Danarius, motioning for him to sit down. “Show me how you cast fire and I will teach you to make a simple shape. Varania, you have your task, do you not?”

She nods and takes a heavy-looking book from one of the cases, sitting down with it at the other end of the bench from them. Hawke had almost forgotten she was there. When he glances over at her, she is squinting heavily at the page, copying down passages onto her own parchment in a stilted, unsteady hand.

For his own part, he struggles at making even sparks without his staff, having not reached for the magic in so long. Danarius laughs, fondly, as one might upon being told a child’s mangle of scribbles was meant to be a horse, or a cat. In the end he holds Hawke’s hands steady with his own, releasing them when he at last cups a tiny, tapered flame, thin as that of a freshly lit candle.

“Do not be embarrassed,” he says, as Hawke watches him completing the wooden Qunari skull with such ease as to put any normal craftsman to shame. “Control comes in time. It is more important that you understand the purpose of a lesson. What did you learn?”

“That it is a lot harder now to cast fire than it was when I first learned about my abilities.”

“Indeed. You have sacrificed many years of training with primal magic, so this strain of your powers is weak. It is a fine thing to master one trade, but finer still to master many.” Danarius lets the flames in his hand die away and sets the sculpture to one side, letting it stare across the room into nothingness. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. You have been stifled for a very long time, and a mage of your skill will learn quickly, even at your age. Perhaps you could show me some magic that you are more proficient in?”

Unthinking, and perhaps quietly determined not to seem quite as useless as before, he nods. “Of course. Only—”

“Cyron, come here,” calls Danarius, and Hawke suddenly realises what a terrible mistake he’s made. For Cyron stands, easily, and crosses the room like a long-neglected dog, timidly leaning into an indifferent owner’s proffered hand.

“Wait,” says Hawke, as Fenris steps forward, automatically. Cyron looks at him but doesn’t move.

Danarius says, “Hit him.”

Against hope, Hawke expects him to refuse, or at least to hesitate. But Fenris doesn’t even grimace as he reaches for the greatsword and swings the flat of the blade hard at Cyron’s stomach. The blow knocks the smaller elf immediately to the floor. Vair knows from his thin limbs and unsteady balance that he is no fighter; he seems to barely know how to respond to violence, only casting beseeching looks between Hawke and Danarius.

Hawke gets to his feet and hears Varania do the same, but when he looks at her he sees this is only to close her book, collect her things and move to another part of the library.

“Again,” says Danarius, while his head is turned. This time Hawke moves faster.

“No!” Knowing that Fenris must keep himself braced to move the heavy sword, that he cannot defend during a swing, knowing that Fenris always looks straight at his target when he strikes them, he has the time to cast the glyph of paralysis under his feet before he can finish his second swing. Fenris freezes, though Hawke can see his muscles twitching as if to break free.

Cyron sits up, coughing. “Master…”

“Stay there,” Hawke says, as gently as he can—even though Cyron is looking up at Danarius, not him. Fenris is glaring at him from his paralyzed state, trying to turn his head toward Danarius as well. Hawke steps closer, takes him by his arms and lowers them, prising his fingers open in one hand to slide the greatsword from his grip. As it clatters to the floor, he dispels the glyph.

His hand is still on Fenris’, the lyrium in his fingers starting to glow all the way up his arm. Hawke steps back hurriedly, while Fenris stares down at his own hand as if in shock.

“Here,” says Danarius, and he calms again, going to his side. “That was impressive, Hawke. Now—”

“No,” Hawke hears himself saying, deeper and lower than he thought his voice could be. And before Danarius can say any more, he kneels beside Cyron on the floor. “Stay still, nice and still, all right? Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“Mas…” Cyron coughs and shakes his head. He motions at his abdomen. Hawke shushes him, reaching one arm around his shoulders to keep him upright as he summons the magic that comes as naturally to him as breathing.

Cyron goes very still in his arms. Hawke closes his eyes to focus better. He can sense his body in channels of energy, like a network of streams or a map of streets; and he can feel where they are blocked, instinctively translating this knowledge into injuries. Cyron’s two lowest ribs are broken on one side; the lowest on the other side is fractured. His organs weren’t damaged, only some of the surrounding tissue. He twisted his arm on the side he fell on, and is bruised along his hip, but those injuries are not serious. Hawke concentrates first on the ribs, feeling them fuse back into place, followed by a short, cool burst of magic to soothe the inflammation. Then he lets his focus trail toward his arm and down his side.

Through it all he can hear Cyron’s breathing turning from the panicked gasps of a wounded rabbit into a slower, sleepy rhythm. Finally, he sets him down on his back, patting his hand, and stands back up over him.

Danarius looks awed. “You have quite a gift, Hawke. I have never seen someone heal—”

“You will never, ever do something like that in front of me again,” he says, voice firmer and steadier than it has been since he arrived in Tevinter. “Ever.”

“Hawke,” Danarius laughs. “You are far too much. Slaves—”

“Are living things.” He steels himself. “If you think they are inferior to you, then set a higher example. Where I come from we treat even animals with more respect than you just showed.”

“Did you see me strike him?” Danarius seems to be losing patience with this, but Hawke is too angry to care.

“It is even worse that you would force someone else to do what you cannot.”

“Cannot?” Now Danarius’ voice is cold again, and with the fading adrenaline Hawke realises he may have flown a little further off the handle than was safe. “That is a very foolish assumption, Hawke.”

Cyron gets to his feet, holding onto Hawke’s elbow for support. It is only now that he notices Varania is watching them from behind one of the bookshelves, wide-eyed.

“Besides which—” He beckons, and Fenris leans into his side, head on his shoulder. “I force nobody to do anything.”

“I…” As his rush of righteous adrenaline subsides, Hawke feels the nerve draining out of him. “It’s only… there’s no need for… I don’t…”

“I think that’s enough for one day,” Danarius says, stroking Fenris’ hair absently. “This lesson is over. I will see you at dinner.”

Feeling as he does, Hawke does not protest further. He lets Cyron take his arm and leaves the library, each step feeling heavy as the greatsword as it had clattered to the floor. Perhaps he has done the right thing, but he feels no better for it—in fact, every forward step he’s taken here seems to have been followed by two larger steps backward. Now his attempts at infiltration are starting to get people hurt, and he doesn’t feel any closer to helping Fenris.

Cyron leans into his side at the top of the stairs and he turns to him, careful to keep supporting him with one arm. Even if his healing should have taken care of most of the pain, he’s still likely to be tender. “Are you all right?”

“Doesn’t hurt,” Cyron mumbles, looking sullen, though his eyes briefly dart up to Hawke’s face. “Thanks.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” says Hawke, smiling as best he can. “I shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place.”

“Fast,” Cyron says dizzily. “It was fast, I mean.”

“Yes, it was. But still—”

“I hate him,” spits Cyron, suddenly so tense that he’s shaking. “He’s just—just _hate_ him…”

Hawke tries to loosen his grip to give him a little space, but he’s starting to usher him back to the guest room. He’s sure Danarius wouldn’t be pleased to hear anyone else mouthing off about him within earshot.

“I know,” he says, softly, “it wasn’t fair what he did. And he should never have made Fenris—”

“ _Fenris_ ,” Cyron snaps, “I _mean_ Fenris! He’s always been like that, always—always so fucked up and—and just, just doesn’t—looks at us, looks at me like—like I’m dirty, like I’m nothing!”

 _Fenris?_ Even after what he’s just seen, it’s still too strange to believe. The Fenris he knew hadn’t been warm to everyone, but he was never this cold.

“It’s not th-that simple,” Hawke says, fumbling with his words. “Danarius made him do that. Fenris wouldn’t—”

“He killed them,” Cyron blurts out, “he killed a whole bunch of us. When I would have just—just done what Master wanted and if I _just lay still_ —”

Hawke scans the surrounding hallways hurriedly as Cyron’s voice rises, but luckily they seem deserted. Still, he hurries him into the guest room as soon as he can and shuts the door. “Cyron, please don’t say that. None of this is your fault.”

“I know! I know, it’s _his_. He hates other slaves. Hurts us, kills us. Takes Master away.” He huffs, kicking at the floor. “Selfish. No-one else does stuff like… like that.”

“Why?” Hawke kneels slightly to be closer to his height. “Why would he do those things, Cyron? Is it because your master told him to?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know! But everyone—everyone knows what he did. How he killed people.” Cyron isn’t sobbing or shaking, but there are tears rolling from his wide eyes. “Wasn’t there. I was hiding after—after what happened. If I hadn’t… then he wouldn’t have…”

“You… you think _that’s_ your fault? That Fenris hurt people?”

“Killed them,” Cyron corrects, sniffing. “All of them, even though—blood all over the courtyard—and I wasn’t…”

“Stop,” Hawke tells him gently, reaching up to dry his tears with a corner of his sleeve. “Please, Cyron. You weren’t responsible. You—you tried your best to do what your Master wanted. You didn’t know what would happen afterwards, did you?”

“No,” he admits, fidgeting. “I guess.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, though he’s burning all the more with questions now. “Would you feel better if we went outside, maybe? To have some fresh air? Or… or is there anything I can…”

“I don’t… get it.” Cyron looks down at him, frowning. “You were so strong back there, but now you’re acting like a slave.”

 “I… what?”

“Master’s powerful, but you got angry and shouted at him and you didn’t sound sorry,” Cyron continues. He motions to Hawke where he’s kneeling in front of him. “But I’m not nothing, and you just… are like this. Why?”

Hawke casts his mind back to all of the times he’s felt angry in the past few weeks, realising that it’s been much more often than he realised. He doesn’t think he’s ever had this much anger in him—not ever. “I… I don’t know. I’m not used to this. Any of this.”

Cyron looks as if he’s thinking about it. “You’re a weird mage.”

At that Hawke has to laugh just a little, “I’m not very good, am I?”

“No, you are,” Cyron tells him, more firmly than he had expected. “But weird.”

“Thank you,” he says, rising to his feet again. “I think. Now—”

“Is it true what Master says?” Cyron asks, very quickly. When Hawke only blinks at him, he carries on. “About Fenris, I mean.”

“What did he say?”

“That you’re obsessed with him. He said that you’d try and get Fenris away from him, and that I should tell him if you… if you tell me stuff about trying to steal him.” He lowers his gaze to the floor, hands fidgeting together. “But you haven’t said anything like that. You’ve just been nice to me.”

Hawke knows that in light of this he ought to choose his words very carefully. But to him it’s clear Cyron has been lied to all too often—that he’s been pushed to the brink and beyond—and yet he’s told the truth. If it is the truth. Perhaps he is too trusting.

“Fenris was my friend,” he admits. “I wanted to help him, but… I’m not sure if I know how to do that, now.”

“Oh,” says Cyron, sounding disappointed. Then, “It figures. Everyone wants Fenris.”

“Wait…” Hawke shakes his head, sighing. “It’s… a bit more complicated than that. If I tell you, I need you to promise you won’t repeat anything to Mast—Danarius. Would you do that for me? Please?”

“I’m a slave.” Cyron cocks his head. “You could just tell me to do it.”

“I’m asking you,” says Hawke, kneeling to his height again. “I want you to choose. And—and when all of this is over, I could… well, my friends and I could take you with us, too. You’d be safe.”

Cyron’s face falls. “I’d have to leave?”

“Well…” Hawke can’t think of a future here in Tevinter that would be kind to this elf, who looks no older than him or Fenris yet acts at once like a child and someone very, very old and tired. Would it be any better in Kirkwall? No matter what happens, things don’t look good for him. “If you wanted to. I’d want you to choose that, too.”

“I promise I won’t tell,” says Cyron, finally, “but… but I don’t know yet. About going.”

“That’s fine,” says Hawke. “We can figure it out later. But… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Cyron leans in and hugs him, face leaning into his shoulder. “Master.”

 

\---------------------

 

It isn’t until after dinner that Hawke has the chance to act on what Cyron tells him. He supposes in retrospect it should have been obvious. The shared expressions, the similar eyes—Maker, he’s even heard her name before, only he’d forgotten it in the confused flurry of worry and love and sadness that had been that day and the night that followed.

Danarius does not seem upset with him any more at dinner; indeed he is almost jovial, calmly joking with him while feeding Fenris from his plate. Hawke keeps very quiet and stays as focussed as he can. Then, after dinner, he takes Varania gently by her shoulder to keep her from stalking away from him.

“You’re his sister,” he says. It is not a question.

She doesn’t deny it, doesn’t ask who. It’s written everywhere now that he looks back, in the way she looks at Fenris, looks at him, in the way she stacked dishes like a slave and squinted at the letters on the page as she studied with them in the library. Her tense shoulders sink and she sighs, leaving his hand where it is. “Yes.”

“Why?” he asks, simply.

“I hoped you’d prove me wrong, Hawke.” She finally reaches up to brush his hand away. “I truly did.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varania confront one another about the situation they find themselves in. With no more capacity to plan, Hawke decides to set his rescue in motion... for better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a number of things I could say about why I didn't update this for so long, but I don't expect any of them matter. P: 
> 
> A few things:  
> \- I love writing Varania. I really hope it shows.  
> \- As a rule, every time a good thing happens to Hawke, at least two bad things also happen to make up for it.  
> \- The last scene is actually the first scene I pictured in the entire story and was the reason I felt inspired enough to write it. It was nice to finally get there, after all this time. :)

Varania turns to him slowly in the empty dining room, with the picked carcasses of the dishes still cluttered over the table. “You couldn’t stay out of it, could you? I told you: you’d be better off going home.”

“I can’t,” he says. When he sees her turning her head in the direction of the door, he steps closer. “Please, just be honest with me. None of this makes sense.”

“It would if you lived here,” she says sharply, “or if you knew Fenris anywhere near as well as you think.”

Hawke feels the ever-present knot in his stomach tighten. “I did know him. But the Fenris in this house is… he’s a completely different person.”

“Because he doesn’t remember _you_?” Varania rolls her eyes. “For someone who plays at being all meek and mild, you seem to think you’re very important.”

“It isn’t that,” he says levelly, refusing to rise to the bait. “You’re his sister. You should know better than anyone.”

Varania stays quiet for what feels like a long time, jaw clenched so tight that Hawke can see it quivering. For a fleeting, terrifying moment Hawke almost thinks she’s going to scream in his face, but when she does speak it’s in a low, soft voice that is somehow all the more terrifying. “The Fenris out there is an _improvement_.”

“How?” Hawke shakes his head in disbelief. “How can you say that about your own brother?”

“Because my brother was nothing short of a psychopath,” she hisses. “Did Cyron tell you what he did to get those marks? He killed so many of his kin that the cleaners couldn’t get the bloodstains out for a week. And let me tell you—” She leans in closer, glowering. “—those cleaners are _very_ used to bloodstains.”

“But why? Why would he kill them?”

“Danarius wanted someone strong,” Varania explains. “After Cyron couldn’t withstand the tattoos, he decided he needed someone with a firmer constitution. He held a mock tourney, told us all he would grant a boon to whoever managed to defeat all of his opponents. Fenris—Leto—couldn’t volunteer fast enough.”

She shakes her head, looking pale. “It wasn’t as if he was fighting trained warriors. Maker, none of them were trained. He was fighting grooms, cooks, cleaners… like he was possessed. Nobody else fought like that. So mercilessly.”

“It… it can’t be,” says Hawke. “He would have been young then. How could he have—”

“Eighteen,” Varania tells him, “but he was always like that. My brother was always controlling. He always thought he knew what was best for Mother and I. So of course the moment he won he told Danarius all he wanted was our freedom.”

“So he did it for you?” Hawke frowns. “He only wanted—”

“What about what _we_ wanted?” she snaps. “He wasn’t the one who was going to live with the consequences of his choice. So we were freed; turned out on the streets. No home, no money, _nothing_.”

“He wouldn’t have known that,” Hawke protests. “How could he have—”

“Known that we lived in squalor? Known that his mother, _my mother_ , died two years later because we couldn’t afford food or medicine?” Varania’s eyes are blazing. “No. You’re right. He didn’t know a thing. Because he was back here, being spoiled rotten, paraded around like a fucking prince. And all the while, he’s picking on the weaker slaves, intimidating them, not lifting a _finger_ for them—”

“So you think he was happy?” Hawke can’t listen to another word. “He hated it! He—he hated Danarius too. Once he escaped, he felt… _sick_ about the things he’d done. When I met him, he was trying to kill him!”

“Just like Fenris,” Varania spits. “So he wants to kill him while he’s having his little tantrum, but don’t you think it’s funny that even though he comes back kicking and screaming, he’s back in his Master’s bed in the next few days? You’ve seen him. He’s not being _forced_ to do anything.”

“His mind isn’t his own,” Hawke says, “there’s no way nothing was done to him. Danarius even admitted he removed his memories—what else did he do? You must know, Varania.”

“Nothing he didn’t deserve!” she shouts—but it’s fear in her eyes, not anger. When Hawke stays silent she shivers, steeling herself before speaking again. “Look. I don’t care what happened to him. My brother was crazy, and I’m glad he’s gone.”

“I had a brother,” Hawke tells her softly. “He did things that hurt me, too. But I’d never let something like this happen to him, or anyone else for that matter. Fenris is a person—you must be able to see that.”

“Fenris is a slave, and so was I. Here, they’re not people,” she says, though she seems to be trying to convince herself more than anyone else. “Do you know how hard I worked to lift myself out of the slum he put me in? And now, of course, that I’m _finally_ making progress, _you_ come along. Because of him. It’s always because of _him_.”

“But this was because of you,” says Hawke quickly. “He’s here because of you. He wouldn’t have been recaptured at all if he hadn’t wanted to meet you so badly. If he hadn’t wanted to know his family.”

“Family…” She shakes her head. “Family doesn’t mean anything. Slaves are bred like dogs. Cyron is his family too, if it’s down to blood, and you saw how he treated him.”

“The Fenris I knew would never have done something like that!” he insists. “I know I’m right, even if you don’t believe me.”

“That’s right,” she says coolly, “I don’t.”

Hawke can see he won’t get much further with this approach. So he tries, painful as it is, to view Fenris as she does—as a tyrant, a madman. “I… it must be difficult, then. To see him every day.”

“He’s better now,” she says, very deliberately. “He doesn’t even look the same, really.”

“But you know. You can never not know, I suppose.”

“No. I suppose not.”                                                                                                                                                    

“Does it ever—”

“Once I have a rank of my own, it won’t matter.” She looks at him. “You talk about slaves as if they’re victims, and yet I am standing right here. I was given a choice that could raise me out of the mire and I took it. Fenris tried to take his, but he wasn’t strong enough. That isn’t my fault.”

“So you don’t feel anything for him at all?”

“I don’t feel guilty, if that’s what you mean.” She wrinkles her nose a little and for a moment—just a moment—Hawke thinks how very _like_ Fenris she looks, in her own way. Perhaps it isn’t so much her appearance as her mannerisms and how she holds herself; in fact, he thinks, very sadly, right now she is more like Fenris than even Fenris himself. “He makes me uncomfortable, I suppose, but it’s not as if he can do anything to me. Not from the end of his leash.”

“You think he’d hurt you?”

She laughs curtly. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” he says, without really thinking. “I… I think I’d feel too sad.”

“ _You_ might,” she says, rolling her eyes again. This time, though, she hesitates. Hawke can see her turning something over in her mind, giving a guilty glance toward the door as she does so. Finally, she tilts her chin up at him proudly and moves toward him, a new gleam in her eye. “You know that everybody knows why you’re here. Did Cyron tell you that?”

“He’s done nothing wrong,” he says, quickly.

“Of course he hasn’t; but that’s never helped him much before.” Her lip twists a little, but she stays firm. “But my point is that it was never in question that you were here for Fenris. How could it be? He wouldn’t shut up about you all the way back.”

Hawke’s stomach twists. He feels a coldness rushing through him, as if a chill wind has filled his lungs.

“Danarius knows. He had Fenris tell him everything before he erased his memories.” She moves past him, forcing him to turn to look at her as she draws to a halt beside the empty chair at the head of the table. “I’m surprised he’s humoured you as long as he has. He _really_ doesn’t like it when people play with his toys.”

“He’s not—I didn’t—”

“Just don’t. Please.” Sighing tiredly, she leans against one arm of the chair. “You were lucky, you know. He gave Cyron poison for you that first night. If you’d slept with him like Danarius thought you would, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

Hawke feels as if he’s been dropped from a great height, landing with a harsh jolt that rocks through his knees up through his core. Cyron seemed like a lot of things when he’d met him, but certainly not an accessory to murder. It hadn’t even occurred to him to assume such a thing.

“For what it’s worth,” she carries on, “I’m glad Danarius gave him to you. I know what I said, but… it’s been a long time since anyone was kind to him.”

“That’s horrible,” he says, still stunned. Then, “But… why would you tell me this?”

Shaking her head, she laughs again. “Why not? The way I see it, you’ll do one of two things: try to take Fenris and go, and be killed, or stay and be outmanoeuvred. I think Danarius will keep playing you for a little while—maybe even a long time, he seemed quite serious about that brother-complex story—but I’m sure the novelty will wear off eventually.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Do you think I care what Danarius does? I’m here for myself, not for him.” She keeps her head pointedly turned away. “It just slipped out. I figured you always knew who I was—I think I had a plan, even, for when you confronted me, but I didn’t expect it to take so long.”

At this Hawke flushes. He can’t tell her, of course, that he hadn’t remembered who she was at all until Cyron had said it. The name had simply eluded him; after all, the confrontation with Hadriana in the old slaver caves had been a blur compared to what happened later in the evening. Every time he had tried to think of it clearly he had only been able to imagine warm kisses and tender, calloused hands twined in his; but no, she had spoken Varania’s name. It was Hawke’s own fault it had been lost directly afterwards in a dizzy ocean of intimacy, Hawke’s own fault he hadn’t asked again…

“There must be some reason,” he says, forcing himself back into the moment. “You don’t gain anything from this, do you? Isn’t it risky for you?”

“He isn’t going to take your word over mine, I’m sure,” she says, “even if you’re an atrocious liar. I thought I could suggest something else.”

“You’re… you’re helping me?”

“You?” She scoffs. “No. I was going to tell you that if you took Cyron and left, right now, I wouldn’t say a word. I might even cover for you.”

“Of course,” he says, piecing it together. “He’s your brother, too.”

Varania frowns deeply. “What? No. He and Fenris had the same father—you remember, picked out specially—but I was natural, not a commission.”

“Then why—”

“Because he’s suffered enough. Shouldn’t that be good enough for you, Ser Bleeding Heart?” She glares over her shoulder at him. “He’s lower in the pecking order than almost anyone. If he stays here, he’ll die, sooner or later. I don’t want that on my hands. Do you?”

“Not at all, but…”

It would be simple, so simple to walk away from all of this now, to give up on a task which only grows more and more impossible by the second. If Fenris is suffering, he doesn’t know it; and if Hawke feels guilty for leaving him behind then what is that to him but another addition to his long list of regrets, scrawled into his mind below the bloodied bodies of his family?

“But?”

“…but I can’t. Not without Fenris.”

Simple, perhaps, to take his things and walk out the door, back down the dim streets to the inn where his friends are still waiting… but impossible to face himself afterwards. What kind of person would leave anyone, lover or friend or even enemy, to this kind of life? Even knowing how outmatched he is here, especially alone, giving up now simply isn’t an option.

Varania looks unimpressed. “He doesn’t know who you are.”

“I know.” That still hurts, and maybe it will always hurt—Hawke doesn’t know if anything he does at this point can fix whatever was done to Fenris. But this is not about how he feels.

“You don’t even know who _he_ is.”

“I—I know.” He swallows, hard. “I really don’t expect you to understand. But I have to do this.”

“I’m not Danarius,” she says, firmly. “If I look at you and think about my lost little brother, it’ll only make me less inclined to help you.”

_So that part is true,_ Hawke thinks, though he tries to train his expression back into neutrality. “I know.”

“On the other hand,” she continues, with a very careful glance around the room, “you’re in a unique position to help _me_.”

 

* * *

 

 

The way Hawke sees it, it happens tonight, or not at all.

“Cyron,” he tells him. “You remember the inn where you took my friends and I? I need you to go there right away and give them this.”

The letter he hands him is a hurried apology, a fumbling stream of thought, and even to him it doesn’t make much sense, but if things go badly—and they certainly may—he wants his friends to at least know what happened. He’s penned a disjointed list of key facts—that Danarius knows who he is and why he’s here, that Varania is Fenris’ sister and he confronted her without thinking, an admission that he doesn’t have a plan, that he can’t make one, that all of it is happening too fast and…

Actually, in retrospect, he supposes this all reads suspiciously like a suicide note.

“Want me to tell them to come back with me?” asks Cyron.

“No,” says Hawke, “I think—I think it would be better if you… if they…”

He swallows. If it all does go downhill, then the least he can do is make sure Cyron isn’t dragged down with him. “Well, no matter what you say, they might not listen. But could you promise me you won’t come back, Cyron?”

Cyron cocks his head. “What, tonight?”

“No.” Hawke shakes his head. “Never. I need you to stay away from this place from now on.”

“But what about you? Are—are you getting rid of—”

“Ah, no! No, no, I’m not… well…” It’s sinking in, now: the reality that once he does this, there won’t be any turning back. He’s outmatched, outnumbered, and running on little more than desperation and vain hope. Still, he smiles at Cyron, bending one knee to be more at a height with him. “Remember what I said? About going back to the Free Marches, maybe? I need you to decide now, Cyron. I don’t want to take you somewhere you don’t want to go, but I can’t leave you behind, either.”

“I can’t decide,” Cyron says, eyes wide. “I’ve never _decided_ anything.”

“I can’t make you,” says Hawke, as gently as he can. “Just please think about it, and… and if you don’t want to, I’ll find somewhere safe for you here, if I can.”

“You _can_ make me,” Cyron retorts, almost viciously. “You know that.”

“I won’t.” Hawke straightens up again slowly. “I’m not forcing you to deliver this message either, but Cyron, I can’t… I can’t do this without your help.”

“That’s the same as making me.” Cyron’s tone is suddenly sharper, cannier, than Vair is used to. “D’you think it doesn’t count ‘cause you ask nicely? You know I’ll do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke’s empty hands are shaking at his sides. “There’s nobody else. Please don’t make me ask again.”

Cyron smiles wide again, lopsided. “All right, Master.”

As he walks away, Hawke wonders at the possibility that Cyron, like everyone else here, could simply be playing him for a fool. It seems unlikely; but so had being poisoned, if Varania was to be believed. Truth be told his experiences here have only left him even more unsure than ever what to believe about anyone, including himself.

He leaves the guest room just in time to see the back of Cyron’s head bob down as he falters slightly on the stairs, and almost goes to help him—but he tells himself to concentrate, and turns the other way.

Varania tells him Fenris is alone only once in the day, when he eats; not in the kitchen downstairs, but in one of the smaller servant quarters upstairs. Danarius doesn’t like him mixing with the others—which Varania says is just as well given that he intimidates them—so he has the food brought to him, and then leaves him alone to eat, spending at least an hour in his study, so she says.

_I’ll be out of the house for the rest of the night,_ she’d told him, pointedly, _so there would be no way for me to stop you if you were to… well…_

And she’d inclined her head just so, and turned to leave.

Hawke fluctuates between hope and despair as he approaches the small side-door leading to the servants’ quarters. Then he hesitates with his fingertips on the handle, trying to still the nauseous fear crawling up his spine. He closes his eyes, clasps the handle, and gingerly pushes the door open.

Silence.

He opens his eyes again. Fenris is looking up at him from a small table across from the door, holding his bread in one hand. Hawke almost smiles—he always remembers Fenris eating with his hands. His Qunari style collar is sitting on the table next to his plate, replaced by a smaller leather one which is attached to the wall behind him with a long, loose chain; Hawke suspects Danarius is done taking the chance of Fenris running.

Fenris’ eyes flicker down to his plate again. He’s ignoring him.

Hawke tells himself not to be dissuaded. Even if Fenris doesn’t remember him, it’s not right to leave anyone like this. He clears his throat gingerly. Fenris looks up at him again, setting down his bread—and Hawke sees his hand under the table fidgeting, like he’s trying to do away with something.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he says, rather awkwardly.

Fenris shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Hawke’s eyes sting before he knows it of himself. It’s the first time he has heard his voice since they last saw each other in Kirkwall. “I… ah, I…”

For a moment, Fenris watches him patiently for a response, head tilted. Then he picks up his bread again, seeming disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke adds hastily as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “I must have, er, come the wrong way… but actually, I had been hoping to talk to you about…”

“No,” says Fenris, simply. When Hawke stares at him, he lifts his head again. “My apologies for being so blunt. My Master has asked me not to speak to you about my time away from home. He believes it would only disturb me.”

There’s a touch—just a touch—of the old, acerbic Fenris in those last few words. Nonetheless, Hawke wilts. “Oh.”

“It is nothing personal.” Fenris keeps holding the bread to his mouth without actually touching it to his lips, as if he’s unable to eat with somebody watching. “Good to see you, Serah Hawke.”

“Wait,” Hawke blurts out. Fenris puts his bread down again and folds his hands on the table. “I … I just wanted to ask you one thing. You don’t have to answer.”

“Very well.”

“Are you…” Hawke looks him up and down. The hardest part of all of this is still seeing him, looking exactly as he did the day before he went missing, down to his frown lines and the tiny creases around his eyes, the shapes of the goldish flecks in his green irises. There’s a person behind that too-familiar face that Hawke doesn’t recognise now, but even still… “Are you happy here, Fenris?”

It seems to give him pause. Fenris’ eyes drift away and for a moment he seems uncertain. One of his hands slides under the table again. “I suppose.”

“You just suppose?”

“It was an unusual question,” Fenris goes on, beginning to frown, “and not one I had considered. I have no reason to be unhappy, if that is what you mean.”

“I hope not,” says Hawke quietly. There is a slow silence; then he takes a timid step forward. “Look, Fenris… are you sure you don’t—”

“No,” says Fenris quickly, fear flashing in his eyes. He stands up out of his chair. “I’m not to speak to you about this. It is not my place, but—”

“ _Please_!” Hawke cries out suddenly, then claps his hand over his mouth as if he’s just sworn terribly. Fenris is staring at him in stunned silence as he mutters frantic apologies, eyes averted. “Maker, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It isn’t your fault—I know I can’t expect…”

“My Master warned me there might be… confusion with you,” says Fenris, but he seems to be trying to soften his tone ever-so-slightly. “Let me be quite clear: I do not know you. I apologise.”

Hawke’s gaze travels up to him again slowly. Then, as it passes his knees, he sees a flash of colour peeking from inside one of Fenris’ closed fists. A flash of red. At first he thinks he’s cut himself—but when he peers closer, he sees it isn’t blood at all. Fenris is holding something: a piece of cloth, tightly coiled in his hand.

“It would be better if you left now, Serah Hawke,” Fenris is still saying. “My Master will return for me shortly. He might consider this untoward of you.”

“Fenris,” Hawke says, very softly. “What do you have in your hand?”

At that Fenris blanches, clutching his fist to his chest. He looks at Hawke warily for a moment, then lowers it, still closed. “Nothing I need hide from you, I suppose. It is only a rag.”

Hawke’s heart clenches. “May I see it?”

His fingers fall open and a length of red cloth falls between them.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly. It’s worn and dirty now, but still the same favour he had made for him years ago. He remembers the way Fenris had picked it up from the bedstand and wound it around his wrist before he had had the chance to offer it himself. How _much_ it had meant that Fenris had _chosen_ him before he’d even asked, even though he’d looked at him right afterwards with that guarded uncertainty and asked if it was all right. It had so often been that way with them; a balancing act ( _is it enough? is this too much?_ ) between two people who, in spite of their many talents, were pathetically incompetent when it came to being truly close to someone.

Fenris’ fist closes again and he tucks it away again, looking almost embarrassed. “It is only a rag.”

“Then…” Hawke feels a lump forming in his throat. “Then why keep it?”

The red cloth crumples as Fenris briefly grips it tighter. He isn’t looking at Hawke—his eyes are fixed on the cloth as his fingers fall open again, and with his other hand he strokes it very gently. “I do not know. I’ve always had it.”

“Fenris…” He swallows. “Please, try to remember.”

Fenris suddenly lifts his head and stands abruptly, a flash of recognition in his eyes. He looks up at Hawke, uncertain, then steps around the table, his chain stopping him partway. Overcome, Hawke goes to him—he doesn’t think, just takes his face in his hands, turning it side to side as if checking him over, and Fenris says nothing but leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Hawke,” he murmurs, and tilts his head to let him fiddle with the leather collar. As he tries to find the buckle, Hawke can feel the vibration in Fenris’ throat when his fingers brush against the lyrium markings. His hands tremble as they settle on a lock. He can’t pick it, but perhaps he can simply break the chain, or cut the leather without hurting Fenris.

“It’s all right,” he tells him, as he pulls back slightly. “You’re going to be all right.”

As he briefly hesitates, Fenris begins to look up at him again. Hawke stands still, so still, feeling the warmth as Fenris leans forward against him, the chain tinkling as he sets a hand on his shoulder and rises onto the balls of his feet, bringing their faces closer. He still looks unsure, but the recognition is there, brighter than ever; Hawke looks into his eyes and is _known_ , for a moment, just a moment, and then—

Fenris turns his head abruptly, his gaze fixed on the door instead. Hawke doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know what he sees. He just freezes, knowing it’s too late to take his hands off Fenris, too late to pretend he is doing anything else. As he stays still, Fenris steps away and sits back down, looking dazed.

“Oh _dear_ ,” says Danarius, as he enters and closes the door behind him. “And you were doing _so_ well.”


End file.
